


sempiternal compendium

by matskreider



Series: transcendence [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Brief homophobia, Contains Multiple Seasons, Gay Sex, M/M, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Still Hockey Players
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: On the eve of Hank's third season with the New York Rangers, there's a new smell in the locker room. A new non-human: a shapeshifter, named Marc Staal.This is their story.





	1. brontide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [george_squashington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/george_squashington/gifts).



> this is a work that has been in progress for over a year now, and is something that i've pretty much been keeping under wraps for the most part. it is completed - i'm writing the epilogue as you read this now - but it's still going through the beta'ing process. 
> 
> much, much love to my charlie, without whom this would not even be close to being published for public consumption. 
> 
> i really hope that y'all enjoy, and don't be afraid to hit up my [tumblr](https://matskreider.tumblr.com/) with any questions you might have **_!!_**

There’s a new smell in the locker room. Buried somewhere beneath the thick smell of damp pads and sweaty socks, there’s a newer, stronger scent. Usually Henrik only caught wisps of it from skaters on other teams, blending in with the clear smell of chemically produced ice. He’d never encountered one on his team before.

Shapeshifters weren’t that common in Europe. He hadn’t done any research into why, not that it had ever bothered him, but he knew one when he smelled one.

He didn’t expect it, however, to be the recently acquired defensemen in the draft from the summer before.

The 21-year-old turns to look at him, and Hank has to look _up_ for once, which is a change all on its own. They stare each other down for a second, each knowing something about the other, but not knowing the context in which to place the new information.

_Friend or foe? Out or closeted? Danger or safety?_

Worry rolls off the kid in waves, which to anyone else just seems like nerves. Understandable, given that it’s his first time in the big leagues, a dream Hank assumes he’s had since he was young.

He reaches out a hand, holding it in the air between them. “Henrik Lundqvist,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact with the younger of the two. The ginger takes it, and Hank’s not imagining the grip on this kid.

“Marc Staal,” he replies in kind, and his pupils widen just a bit, heart picking up just a smidgen. “You…”

“Staalsy!” Jagr’s voice interrupts whatever Marc was about to say, and Hank nods his head at their captain.

“You’re being summoned. I’d listen if I were you, he’s rather particular with attention.”

Marc hesitates for a second. Hank watches the emotions flit across his face, the changes in his scent, before he seems to come to a decision, and takes a step back. “Yeah, okay.”

And that’s how he meets Marc Staal.

* * *

Time passes, their team still trying to find their legs this early in the season. It’s no surprise why the Rangers sprung for Marc at such a last minute decision. The kid is fast, skates hard, and operates as a shut down defenseman without fail. Hank thinks he could make a few scoring opportunities; after all, he seems to know his way around the ice, even if their forwards are in the midst of a line change. But it’s the beginning of the season, and everyone wants to start off slow.

He keeps his observations to himself, but feels russet eyes focusing on him more often than he’d like. Sometimes, when Hank catches Marc staring at him, the defenseman will avert his gaze. Other times, Marc seems content to stare back.

The gazes get more frequent when Hank hasn’t fed for a few days. On one such day, he brushes a little too close to Girardi. Hank’s open with a select few members of the team at this point, Girardi being one of them, but Marc has no way of knowing that. And even if Dan were to pose some kind of genuine _temptation,_ Hank has enough self control not to just pounce on him in the middle of the locker room.

A choked off growl gets his attention, low enough that he hears it through the chatter in the room. He turns, and sees Marc glowering at him, still seated in his stall.

Dan, meanwhile, seems amused, and pats Hank on the shoulder. “Careful now. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the dynamic, would we?”

He leaves, headed back to his own stall, leaving Hank and Marc staring each other down. When the rookie’s gaze doesn’t waver, Hank can’t help but crack a smile. “Well if he’d like to rescue a damsel in distress, you do make for a good starting point.”

“Oh, no. That’s not – no thanks, Hank. Not my style. I rarely feel the need to be anyone’s damsel.”

“That’s what Pam’s for, is it not?”

Dan only gives a dry look in Hank’s direction, prompting the goalie to head back to his own stall to grab his bag.

When he looks back, Marc is gone.

He tries not to think about the unsettled feeling that brings him.

* * *

Hank gets his first shut out in October of that season, against the Devils, of all things. Now _that_ was a team _rife_ with monsters and demons; quite fitting, given their name and logo.

Marc doesn’t seem at all unnerved by the barrage of smells, the tinge of magic in the air, the calls across the ice that weren’t in any language humans created or studied. Henrik finds himself begrudgingly impressed.

After the media scrums, asking him what it felt like to have his first shut out of the season – _good, it sets a good precedent_ – and if there will be any more – _hopefully, but no one can tell the future_ – he makes his way over to Marc, getting dressed after his own shower.

“Hang back when you’re done. I want to ask you something.” It’s not really a question, but it’s also not a command. Marc could just as easily leave when Hank steps away to go to the shower, but when the Swede returns, the young defenseman has stayed put.

“I would have thought you would have gone out partying with the rest of them. Shut outs don’t happen every game, you know,” he tosses over his shoulder as he dresses himself.

“Wouldn’t matter much if you weren’t planning on going,” Marc retorts, not looking up from his phone.

Hank gives him an amused look. “I don’t go out much. They know that. I just let them celebrate for me.” He shrugs into his suit jacket and grabs his keys, making a “come hither” motion to Marc.

They have an off day before their next game, and Hank intends to make the most of it. “C’mon, I’m driving.”

It’s still reasonably temperate for October in New York. The walk out to the parking garage feels nice on freshly washed skin, and as Hank folds himself down into the driver’s seat of his car, he doesn’t imagine Marc’s sudden hesitance has anything to do with the blatant show of wealth.

(Sue him, he likes nice cars.)

He starts the car, before rolling down the passenger side window. “I’m not going to kidnap you. Get in.”

Marc’s brow furrows, like it seems to do a lot these days, but he opens the door regardless. “How do I know you won’t?”

“Well that would be a waste of talent, now wouldn’t it?” He flashes the younger of the two a smile, keeping care to leave it close lipped. Marc studies his face, but seems to surrender to whatever he finds there, and gets in with little preamble.

It takes about 30 minutes to get home, with Hank weaving between traffic like an actual speed demon. The ride is quiet, both of them stewing about the win and how, even though it is technically a win, there’s always room for improvement.

Marc still smells a bit nervous, but he’s slowly starting to relax by the time they pull up to Hank’s house. Though, looking up at it pushes his scent right back up to adrenaline and nerves, his pulse racing.

That cloying scent is thicker in the small confines of the car, and Hank turns to look at him, lips slightly parted. Marc’s still looking out the window, but he turns to meet Hank’s gaze, almost defiant in his look.

They say nothing, just looking at each other. Hank doesn’t think he imagines the way Marc’s eyes dart down to his lips, the way his tongue pokes out to wet his top lip as if in absentminded thought. “Hank…”

A dog barks down the street, breaking the moment. Henrik abruptly remembers where they are. He turns off the car, opening the door and heading inside. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Marc is following.

“I’m afraid I’m not the best cook, but feel free to make whatever you want from what you can find. Even if it’s just take out,” he says, toeing off his shoes in the foyer.

Marc follows suit, shrugging out of his jacket and taking a cautious walk around the den, ignoring Hank’s instructions. Hank watches as Marc bestows gentle touches to the various things left laying around – a few history books, men’s fashion magazines, succulents, etc. Everywhere he goes, he leaves a bit of his scent behind, but not on purpose.

He’s not marking anything, intentionally. If anything, he’s trying to pull it in closer, keep his mark from being left anywhere it isn’t wanted.

“If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have invited you,” Hank murmurs from where he’s leaning against the door frame. “You don’t have to be so tense.”

“What, exactly, did you invite me for?” Marc replies, turning around to face the older of the two. “Is this some kind of…” He trails off, but Hank already knows where he was going with it.

“No, Jagr didn’t put me up to it, and no, Renney doesn’t know anything about this either. This is just me, extending an invitation to you, and offering the chance to ask questions.”

Marc raises one eyebrow in challenge. “So this is just a gesture of good will…no strings attached?”

“None whatsoever,” Hank confirms, crossing his arms over his chest. “Unless, of course, you want there to be.”

“If I want them to be, then they aren’t strings anymore. They’re terms.”

“Okay, then lay out the terms.”

Marc pauses, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but he presses onwards. Determination even in unfamiliar circumstances had gotten him this far, so why not continue, Hank supposes.

“The right to skip any questions, and you pay for dinner.”

The Swede snorts, but nods. He leans off the wall, and heads back into the kitchen, rifling through the drawer of takeout menus beneath the landline. “Of course, what kind of gentleman doesn’t pay for his guests dinner. Have a preference for anywhere?”

“Meat and carbs, no seafood please,” comes the response, much closer than he had anticipated.

Marc wanders around the kitchen now, seemingly more suspicious of this space than he did in the den. Hank has to silence his laughter at the way he skirts around the fridge, as if something inside were going to bite him.

Placing the order doesn’t take too long, and neither does delivery, and soon Marc has two Five Guys burgers sitting in front of him.   
“No consideration for diet plans, huh?” he mutters as he takes a bite, and Hank takes a seat at the stool next to him.

“We both know you need more calories than is recommended for humans of your age and size.”

The line seems to give Marc pause, and he looks over at Hank with a raised brow, daring him to continue. Never one to shy away from a challenge, Hank presses on. “Shapeshifters tend to need more in general, isn’t that correct? Burn through so much energy with, first, the potential to change forms. Then, the need to keep those forms secret. The higher the level, the more energy it takes to stay human. Your brothers…two level threes and a level two. Am I wrong?”

Marc had resumed eating at that point and shrugs, not disputing the fact. “Yeah, Jared kind of got the short end of the deal on that one, but what can you do.”

“But not you,” Hank continues. “You’re none of those.”

Marc finishes his first burger, licking the mustard off his fingers. “You been checking out my paperwork?”

“No, no. Your smell. I’ve only ever met one other like you before, but he doesn’t want things getting out about him, so. I won’t say more than that.” He wrinkles his nose a bit and hands Marc a napkin. “Here, be civilized.”

“Why would I be, when you already know it’s a miracle I’m human as much as I am,” he replies, but does take the offered paper, wiping off his mouth.

“Because those of us who try to stay hidden tend to keep up pretenses, even with those who know the truth.”

It’s quiet between the two of them, Marc visibly stewing over his words, before Hank continues on. “They’re a good group of guys, you know. You don’t have to worry about them, if that’s what your hold up is.”

Marc turns to him, and shakes his head. “You know that’s not all it is. The moment I come clean about this, I’m not going to be able to be just _Marc Staal_ again. Hell, right now I’m not that. I’m _Marc Staal, unranked Shapeshifter._ The minute I tell someone about that…I don’t want that to change. Not before I can prove myself.”  

Hank nods, understanding the tension. Not from personal experience, but it’s a narrative he’s heard from several other monsters who can scent him out. “Well, you know you can always talk to me. And your brothers, of course.”

“Yeah, about that. I’ve got a few questions for you too.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“Yeah. What the hell is a vampire doing in hockey? I thought your kind didn’t leave where you were made, couldn’t walk in the sun, all that stuff?”

“Those are vastly overrated lies. The truth marches a little more to the tune of this…”

By the time Hank’s done answering Marc’s questions, and Marc’s done eating his food, it’s almost 1 in the morning. Hank stands to get his keys, but Marc stops him, putting a hand on his wrist.

It’s the first voluntary non-celly touch since their handshake almost two months prior.

“It’s okay. I can get my own way home.”

Henrik is used to feeling like the only apex predator in a room, but now, he feels a little off his game. “Are you sure?”

“Just because you don’t turn into bats and fly around at night doesn’t mean that some of us can’t,” Marc replies, straight-faced. It takes about ten seconds before he starts grinning, the both of them laughing like a pair of fools in Henrik’s doorway.   
“Okay, okay. Point proven. Godnatt, Marc.”

“Good night to you too, Henke.”

The change in his name takes Henrik back, but by the time he goes to question it, Marc’s already gone.

* * *

They lose the next game.

Then win the four after that, including two more shut outs for Hank.

The media asks him how he’s feeling, if these games are setting the tone for the season ahead. Hank answers the same answers he’s been taught how to give since media training years prior.

The one thing he didn’t get training for was how to handle Marc’s stares from the back of the room.

* * *

They lose the next one after that, to the Islanders of all teams, and after that they face the Penguins back at home.

It’s interesting to watch the two Staal brothers playing on opposite ends of the ice, to watch Jagr facing his old team. Sidney and Geno tag team to get one nice pass to Gonch, who sends it right where Hank can’t quite get to it.

He shakes it off, having faith in his team to clean things up on the other end of the ice.

Jordan skates by, and Henrik absently notes that he doesn’t smell half as sweet as his brother.

* * *

They go on to win the next four games after that.

* * *

They finish the season 3rd in their division, after being beaten out of playoffs by none other than the Penguins. Though he definitely has bigger things to do – preparing for the Flyers in five days, a game that matters for more reasons than just being playoffs – Sidney finds time to call up Hank between whatever media scrums he has planned.

Henrik, who was in the midst of planning what to do with his suddenly extended offseason, picks up the call without fully checking who it is first.

Sidney’s voice takes him by surprise.

“You found another one.”

The accusation is thinly veiled, and Hank doesn’t bother trying not to roll his eyes. It’s a phone call, not like Sid can see him. “I didn’t seek him out, if that’s what you’re thinking. He got drafted. Players don’t control that Sid, you of all people should understand how that works.”

A beat of silence on the other end of the phone. “Henrik, listen. After our last game, Jordy came up to me. Started asking questions, if I knew anything about the dynamic on the Rangers.”

“And did you say anything?”

“Of course not, it’s not my place to say. But don’t be surprised if dogs start sniffing at your door.”

“Sid, what –”

“Got to go, Hank. Just think about what you’re doing, okay?”

The call ends, and Hank has more questions than answers.

* * *

When he goes out to check the mail, he sees a cluster of pawprints in the mud lining his house after the spring rains.

The smell is faded, washed away with the rain through the night, but Henrik knows what it means.

* * *

The offseason is uneventful.

The next season is a different story. It starts with saying goodbye to Jagr and welcoming Drury as their new captain. It’s the first captain change Marc’s ever gone through, which shouldn’t be as monumental as it is, but with Jagr gone, it whittles their numbers down to just Hank and Marc.

(After the media conference asking Chris about his new role, Hank receives a text from Marc.

_And then there were two._

He smiles despite himself.)

Marc and Hank have a newfound understanding, and occasionally Marc texts with questions regarding the more legal issues of their very existence on the team.

Sometimes, between the hours of one and three in the morning, Hank will get a few texts that seem like a conversation should follow.

_I feel safe around you._

_Don’t tell my brothers, but I like hanging out with you._

_Don’t tell anyone, but I just like being with you._

_I miss you._

But in the morning, Marc brushes them off with a “Sorry, drunk texting, sometimes numbers get mixed up, you know how it goes.”

Hank tries not to think about the ones that specifically mention goaltending or playing hockey in some capacity, or what those could mean.

They get a new coach midway through, and for all that that’s worth, they don’t even make it past the quarter-finals.

Henrik spends the next offseason back in Sweden, catching up with his siblings. If they notice he’s a little bit unfocused, like he’s distracted by something – or _someone,_ Gabriella whispers one night when she and Joel think he’s sleeping – they don’t say anything to his face.

* * *

Years pass, as they often do. Teammates come and go, but Henrik and Marc seem to become the next core that the team is going to be built around. Over time, additions like McDonagh, Stepan, and Zucc click together, giving a more hopeful outlook for the Blueshirts.

Marc’s 23 when he’s asked to become an Alternate for the Rangers. He takes the title with pride, and it’s no small feat when he’s extended an invitation to play alongside his brother in the 2011 NHL All-Star game in Raleigh.

He also doesn’t think it’s any bit of a chance that he was chosen by Eric directly before Marc was added to Team Staal. Perhaps to play up the family rivalry, or perhaps for a different reason entirely.

The look he received from the eldest Staal in the interim did, however, make him question how the rest of the weekend was going to go.

Of course, the touch Marc gives to his shoulder, before ruffling his hair – and he _knows_ how that bothers Hank – sends shivers down his spine that have very little to do with nerves for the upcoming games.

“We love a happy ending here at the NHL All-Star Draft,” the announcer proclaims, and Henrik wonders if maybe, this time, he’ll be allowed one too.

* * *

That night, Team Staal sweeps the boards at the skills competition. Chara smashes his own record for hardest shot, and Ovechkin wins his third consecutive breakaway competition. It’s a fun time, even if Sidney wasn’t able to make it.

Hank knows the young captain would have wanted to go, if not for additional hockey, then to actually ask him face to face what he hadn’t been able to prior.

As he leaves the rink that night, headed back to the hotel where the rest of the players stay, a hand on his shoulder gives him pause.

He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

“Just a conversation, if you don’t mind,” Eric replies, leaving his hand on Hank’s shoulder as he comes up besides him. “Shouldn’t take that long.”

“Pray tell, this doesn’t have anything to do with the game tomorrow, does it?” he asks, looking up at the eldest Staal brother.

_Why are they all so tall?_

Eric doesn’t answer, just quirks his lips into a smile, and nods towards the door. “336. See you there.” He walks into the hotel, leaving Hank already planning what to say to the kid.

He looks over his shoulder as he prepares to follow him, and catches Marc standing with Tanger and Skinner, watching the retreating form of Eric. Well, Jeff was.

Marc and Tanger were staring at him, the three countrymen each invested in the conversation for different reasons. He’s too far away from any of them to get a read on what they’re thinking, but he turns and goes into the hotel, telling himself not to concern himself with the goings on of Canadians.

He tried not to think about the small heartbreaks in Jeff’s eyes.

* * *

Eric has a single, not surprising given the combination of his non-human status and captaincy. Hank remains standing, not leaning against any surface. Eric stares, suit jacket already hung back up in the closet, before motioning for Hank to take a seat in the desk chair.

He does, but waits until Eric is sitting on the edge of the bed before speaking. “What is this about, Eric?”

“What are you doing with my brother.” The question comes out as a statement.

“Why does it always come to – nothing. I’m doing nothing with him. Just because we’re the only two non-humans on our team doesn’t mean that anything has to happen.”

“So why is he so distracted all the time?”

“Perhaps because he was recently given the title of alternate captain and he’s adjusting to the role?”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“I should hope so; without answers, this conversation would be rather dull, wouldn’t it?” Hank retorts, not willing to give Eric the satisfaction of pinning him in a corner. “If this comes from a place of worry for your brother, I wouldn’t be that worried. After all, he is the more powerful of the two of you. He can handle himself.”

Eric’s body tenses at Hank’s words. Crisp blue eyes meet his own as he asks, “How did you know that?”

“I figured it out on my own. His type is rare, yes. But that doesn’t mean he’s the only one.” Hank leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Have any other questions? I already played this game with Marc in October, so nothing much else comes as a surprise.”

There’s a slight widening of Eric’s eyes, his gaze darting to the floor quickly, before he meets Hank’s gaze once again. It’s swift, but Hank sees it.

“…he didn’t tell you that, did he?”

“Where.”

Hank knows where this is going, but doesn’t have the patience to explain that the rules for vampires aren’t the same as the rules for shapeshifters, and that meeting in his own house was moreso a matter of comfortableness for himself, rather than an attempt to “make a move,” or whatever Eric was thinking. He stands, for once looking down at a Staal brother.

“You know where. Marc’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions. Stop trying to fight his battles for him. It’s not going to end well for you.”

Eric stands swiftly, looking down at Hank, his lip curled, exposing his teeth. Hank bares his own in response, hissing a bit in irritation. He’s had enough of the posturing, but a knock at the door pauses them both.

Recognition washes over both of them at the same time, and with one last derisive look over his shoulder, Hank takes his leave.

He hardly looks at Marc as he leaves. His scent is all wrong anyways.

* * *

They lose the game the next night. Hank ends up getting pulled, resulting in an empty net goal. Even though Eric puts his team up again with less than a minute left in the game, Team Lindstrom pulled off the biggest comeback in All Star game history.

Hank doesn’t speak to Eric in much more than a professional sense after the game, aside from half empty well wishes for the rest of the season. Jeff Skinner watches their interaction from the other side of the room, lower lip bitten red, a cagey kind of hope in his eyes.

Marc doesn’t meet Henrik’s gaze.

Hank doesn’t know what he’ll find there.

* * *

They go on to lose the next five games in quick succession. Things between Marc and Hank are tense. The defenseman’s normally recalcitrant nature and grumpy exterior remains firmly in place, and the longer the losing streak continues, the worse his attitude gets.

Henrik knows he’s no ray of sunshine following losses like that, especially since he was pulled and then kept from playing for the majority of those. But after the loss to the Thrashers, his first game in just over a week, wherein Marc took two penalties for dumb shit, he’d had it.

He knew Marc had a roommate, so his options were either to kick said roommate out, or to bring him to his room.

The decision wasn’t that difficult.

Marc went without much of a fuss, and doesn’t hesitate before going and sitting on the double. The right side, closest to the door.

Hank sleeps on the left side.

“What the hell was that.”

“You want to get on me about performance problems, you can get in line. I know, the penalties were for stupid shit. If that’s all this is about, I’ve got better things to do.” He stands, anger tightening his muscles, and Hank stops him with a hand to his chest. Marc’s heart thrums like a hummingbird in a bone cage, and he looks up at him.

There’s defensiveness in Marc’s eyes, but it’s softened by something else. Whatever softness there is compels him to lift his hand, curling his fingers around Hank’s wrist, but not pushing him away.

It’s stupid, it’s such a risky thing to do, but as Hank moves up, hand tightening in Marc’s game day shirt, Marc leans down, meeting him halfway. He tastes like chocolate and alcohol, and though human food hasn’t really done anything for Henrik in several hundred years at this point, he wants more.

He gently licks into Marc’s mouth, who relaxes at the touch, bringing up his other hand to cup Hank’s jaw, encouraging him to keep going. His fangs accidentally brush along Marc’s lip, making him stiffen.

Hank pulls back, looking up at Marc, silently letting him choose what happens next. He watches as Marc traces his tongue over where his fangs had brushed, not hard enough or at the right angle to draw any blood.

Marc smirks, his freckles standing out on his flushed face, and he pulls Hank closer, running his thumb over Hank’s lower lip. “No more teeth,” he mumbles as he traces the Swede’s mouth.

“No more teeth,” Hank agrees, before pushing at Marc’s chest. He willingly goes, backing up until his legs hit the edge of the bed.

Hank takes a minute to realize that yes, this is real, and even if it isn’t going to last, he should probably make the most of it. It takes Marc unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging out of it to get him in motion.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Marc whines, pulling Hank closer by his belt loops.

“We have an early flight, don’t want to risk oversleeping,” he counters, but runs a hand through Marc’s hair. He watches as the shapeshifter’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the touch, mouth slightly parted. “Gorgeous…”

Marc blushes all the way down to his chest, his freckles little brown stars on his heated skin. Hank rewards him by shrugging out of his own jacket and shirt, going to the closet to hang them up. He hears movement on the bed behind him, but only turns to look once he’s sliding his belt out of its loops.

Marc’s moved himself up so he’s resting on Hank’s pillows, in his undershirt and boxers. In the yellow lamp, his hair looks more gold than red, light lashes fanning shadows over his cheeks. He meets Hank’s eye, and crooks two fingers at him, beckoning him closer.

He doesn’t think he imagines the little whine when he takes off his pants, hanging them up alongside the rest of his clothing, before sliding into Marc’s arms on the bed. They kiss again without much preamble, Marc smoothing a palm down Hank’s spine.

The Swede pushes himself over Marc so he’s straddling him, the kiss not wavering. Marc settles his hands on Hank’s hips, and Hank sighs against his mouth. Their bodies press together, languid and lazy and warm. They pass who knows how much time like that, just content to feel each other, each slowly touring the other with lips and fingers.

Marc nibbles teasingly along the cut of Hank’s jaw, and Hank lets out a breathless chuckle. “What happened to no more teeth?”

“I never said that rule was for me,” came the reply, whispered against his neck.

The soft breath makes him shiver, and he slides his palms up Marc’s sides, feeling moreso than hearing the hitch in his breath. “Ooo, someone’s sensitive,” he murmurs, and Marc nips him again in reproach.

“Quiet, Henke. Ruining the moment.”

“Oh, deepest apologies, älskling, won’t happen again.”

Their laughter curls together, comfortable amusement for them both. “I’ll hold you to your word, my king,” Marc replies, tracing his fingers up Hank’s spine.

Warmth blossoms within Henrik’s chest at the words, and he noses along Marc’s jugular, lips parted to take in as much of his scent as he could. He feels his pulse fluttering against his lips, and presses a gentle kiss to the veins there. Marc doesn’t smell fearful, but he’s still nervous.

The adrenaline from the game a few hours prior had finally run its course, leaving the both of them with the last vestiges of fight or flight.

“When was the last time you changed?” Hank asks, lifting his head to look down at Marc, arms braced on Marc’s chest.

“Nine days ago,” Marc replies, busying himself with running his fingers through Hank’s hair. “When did you last eat?”

“Two days ago,” Hank responds, leaning into the touch.

“Getting hungry at all?” Marc asks, though he doesn’t stop petting Hank.

Hank hums in thought. “Yeah, a bit. But I have food at home, I can make it until then.”

“…You don’t have to.”

That makes Hank’s eyes open, surprise stiffening his body. “Wait, you…”

“It takes, what, a few extra hours of sleep and another meal, and then I’m good as new. Just like getting blood drawn, right?” His words are confident, but Hank knows how to read him.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” he presses, and Marc shrugs guiltily.

“After my brother tried to be my parent at the All Star game. I’m also sorry, for whatever shit he said, back then.”

Hank grins, fangs visible now. “I could see where his concern was stemming from. I must admit, I didn’t think there was any foundation for it. So my next question is…how long have you been waiting on this?”

Marc’s gaze drops to the fangs, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. “Since you brought me home and let me in. You don’t really do that with people, I could smell that. And…well, you probably didn’t mean it that way, but with ‘shifters, that means something. Bringing one into your territory, I mean.”

This much he had gleaned from Eric, but he never actually figured it out. “What does it mean, then? Because I’m fairly certain Eric didn’t bring me to his room under any goodwill.”

Marc rolls his eyes, clearly still irritated about the altercation. “No, no. Bringing someone into your own territory as a ‘shifter is more or less an invitation for a fight, or you’re trying to…” He pauses, and blushes again.

“You’re trying to what?” Hank gently prompts. “Seduce?”

“No! No, it’s….well it’s kind of like that, but less so? Like, what’s the word. Courting? I think that’s it.” Marc stumbles through the explanation, and Hank silences him with another careful kiss.

“So that’s why you were checking everything out.”

“That and I was curious. I’d never been around a vampire before, but I knew they’re private creatures. I wanted to see for myself.”

Henrik looks down at Marc with a slightly amused expression. “So your brother thinks that I brought you back to my place to court you. You felt that way because of your upbringing, but outwardly took it as an opportunity to learn about vampires. Am I right?”

Marc diverts his gaze to the side table where their phones were charging. “You know you are.”

“So why not say anything? That was your rookie season…”

“I didn’t want to make things awkward. I was still young, and didn’t have a lot to offer, and there was no guarantee I’d stay up in the NHL with you. I mean, I did, but at the time, I didn’t know. And then my brothers started to suspect things, and I didn’t want to prove them right, so…”

They let the words hang between them for a second, before Marc halts the conversation with another kiss pressed to Hank’s lips. “I meant it, you know,” he says once he pulls back. “You could. Be at top shape for the Pens on Sunday.”

Hank levels him with a searching look, but doesn’t find anything that suggests Marc doesn’t mean it. He kisses him again, letting his fangs brush against Marc’s mouth.

A small whine comes from the defenseman, and he tilts his head to the right. Hank kisses down the newly exposed skin, settling his mouth over where Marc smells the sweetest, pulse twisting and winding beneath his flushed skin.

“Wear your scarf tomorrow,” he warns, before biting in. Marc gasps, but doesn’t move, leaving Hank free to drink his fill.

Marc’s blood is like a sweet wine. Magic pops like carbonation over his tongue, and the scent that’s teased him for nearly five years now concentrates in his mouth. Slow, even pulls of the sweet ambrosia fill Hank with the warmth he associates with a recent feeding.

Marc groans beneath him when he finally pulls off, licking his fangs and the two holes left behind against his neck, sealing the bite mark. When he pulls back, it looks like a regular hickey, but with the addition of his teeth marks.

Tearing his eyes from the bite, he checks over Marc as a whole. He’s warm and pliant beneath him, but doesn’t seem dazed or confused.

“Was it good?” Marc asks, voice a little rough.

Hank leans down and kisses him again, gratitude and passion overwhelming the embrace.

“Oh älskling; you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

* * *

The next morning, Hank wakes up with Marc curled up in his arms, their legs tangled together. Getting him out the door and back to his room is difficult, especially when neither of them really wanted to let go of the other.

Dealing with the chirps from their teammates is part and parcel of the experience. Marc handles them with grace, glad at least that they were in a better place than last night.

Marc sits next to him on the plane, in the window seat, and rests his head on Hank’s shoulder once they’ve reached cruising altitude.

Hank gently pets Marc’s hair, marveling at how easy he is for it. For Hank, really.

When they land, he still feels high.

* * *

The Rangers pull off a win against the Penguins, 5-3. Marc gets two assists and no penalties.

After the game, when the team lines up to share in the celebration of their win, Marc spends a second longer with his helmet pressed to Hank’s.

Then he’s disappearing into the throng of their team.

They salute the home crowd, and leave, headed back to the locker room. Media takes a stab at anything, asking how it feels to shake off their six game losing streak. Chris and Hank get the most of it, but once the journalists have their answers, they leave, allowing them to actually clean themselves off.

Marc is nowhere to be found within the locker room, but Hank knows he can’t have gone far. He thanks the staff he passes on the way out, walking through the Garden. He smells Marc before he hears him. There’s a sour note to his normally sweet smell, an added twist of salt to the aroma he knows so well.

He’s agitated, and Hank narrows his eyes as he comes around the corner.

Marc’s arguing with Jordan in an enclave, the two of them speaking in hushed tones. The elder Staal sees Hank first, and tries to shake his head to tell him not to come forward. Jordan turns, following his brother’s line of sight. Upon seeing Hank, his shoulders raise a bit, his glare turning poisonous.

Henrik knows this isn’t the time or place to have this discussion, but he approaches anyway.

“My brother isn’t just some plaything for you to glamor whenever you want,” Jordan snaps.

“Hello to you too,” Henrik replies, looking between the two brothers. Marc looks at him with a poker face, but his eyes look tired.

“This isn’t the place to do this,” Marc murmurs, still trying to calm his brother down.

“Well since you won’t answer any of Eric’s or Jared’s texts or calls, I had to do it this way.” The blond Staal turns once again to look at Marc.

“Marc is right. I’d be more than happy to have this conversation elsewhere. Your place or mine, since you already know how to get there.” The question is tense, a loaded spring should Jordan take the bait.

Jordan just stares at him, eyes wide. It had been almost five years, but Hank hadn’t forgotten. Important things like that, he never forgot.

As Marc’s about to speak, Jordan interrupts, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “A real piece of work, Marc. You sure know how to pick ‘em.” The younger brother shoves his way between them, heading back into the hallway.

“Get this sorted out before next Sunday, Marc. For your own good.”

Marc stares after his younger brother, hands clenched into fists. He doesn’t relax when Hank puts his hand on him, but he doesn’t shrug him off either.

Hank gently turns him, and leads him to the parking garage. They part with a kiss at Marc’s car, Hank’s fingers tracing over the belt Marc had wore.

The drive home only takes 25 minutes that day. Henrik’s pretty sure he’ll get a ticket at some point.

He doesn’t particularly care.

* * *

He’s awoken at 4 in the morning by the sound of tires in his driveway. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if maybe he heard something in the neighbor’s driveway instead. But then there’s a knock at the front door, and he knows that knock.

Not bothering with a robe, Hank descends the stairs and walks to the front door, hair a mess and sleep still clinging to his body. He’s reasonably sure he has pillow scars all over his arms, but when he opens the door and sees Marc standing there, a shy but grateful expression on his face, he finds that it doesn’t matter.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. Marc just steps in around him, closing the door behind him and toeing his snow boots off.

“Missed you.” Marc’s voice sounds exhausted, like he hadn’t known sleep since they last spoke. Hank steps up to him, pressing his face to Marc’s neck, hissing lazily. “You’re cold.”

Marc hums, wrapping his arms around Hank, a little bit tighter than he would normally. It’s not so much a hug as it is holding on. “Can I sleep here?” he asks.

“We can sleep right now, if you want. I’m not quite done,” Hank mumbles, already walking backwards toward the stairs, dragging Marc along with him.

They make it to the bedroom, where Marc shucks his jeans and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Hank makes a mental tab to whine about that later, but instead collapses onto the bed, lazily working himself back under the covers.

Marc crawls in after him, and Hank lets himself be gathered into Marc’s arms. They both drift off, the darkness of a winter morning coaxing them back to sleep.

* * *

Neither of them are morning people, it turns out.

Hank wakes up as the little spoon, facing the sunlight creeping valiantly through the drawn shades. He stretches out, yawning as he does so. The movement jostles Marc enough that he grumbles something in his sleep and pulls Hank closer, clearly determined not to let him go.

“Marc.” It’s not loud, but it is loud enough that Marc whines again, fighting to keep from fully waking up. Hank resigns himself to being stuck in this freckled prison, and begins to trace patterns on Marc’s forearms.

He gets as far as Marc’s inner elbow before there’s a grunt behind him. “Shtop it.”

“Ooo, sensitive,” Hank replies, harkening to the first time they spent the night together.

That wakes Marc up a little bit more, if the yawn in Hank’s ear is any indication. “’m not sensitive.”

“Oh, no yes, you’re the epitome of unflappable grace, my mistake.”

“How can you use such big words first thing in the morning?”

“It’s a gift. Now.” He rolls over as much as Marc’s arms will allow, and comes face to face with the still mostly asleep shapeshifter. He brings a hand up to cup his cheek, rubbing his thumb gently under Marc’s eye. “What brought you here last night, älskling?” he murmurs, studying Marc’s expression.

That peculiar sleep weakness that haunts humans still clings to his bones, the kind that makes fists laughable curls of fingers first thing in the morning. Hank can see that much in the way that Marc seems to contemplate having a physical reaction to the words, or just pressing on with it. In the end, he chooses a conversation.

“Jordan came by my place last night before they left this morning. Apparently he wasn’t done talking to me after yesterday’s game.” Marc leans into Hank’s touch, his own hand sleepily tracing down Hank’s body.

“Did he have anything new to say, or just more of the same?” Hank asks, letting Marc explore. Ticklishness had faded for him somewhere along his 75th birthday, but the gentle touches still felt nice.

“More of the same.”

Hank hums and closes his eyes, content to just lay there in the parenthesis of their bodies, but he has to know one more thing. “Is their big hang up because I’m a vampire or because I’m a male?”

He kept his eyes closed, but can hear the little pause in Marc’s breathing. “It’s…a little bit of both, from Jordan. Just the vampire thing, from Eric. He’d be a hypocrite if homophobia was his motivator.”

“So that little ray of sunshine really _is_ his.”

“Not yet, but I’m sure Jeff will wear him down eventually. He’s just got to pull his head out of his ass.”

“What’s he scared of, the age difference?”

“Like we’re ones to talk.”

Hank opens his eyes at that, studying Marc’s face. He’s watching him in turn, russet eyes a calm warm presence, despite the words just spoken. “Does that…bother you?”

“Not particularly. Considering no one knows really knows the life expectancy of someone like me, age doesn’t really matter.”

Phrasing it like that, like _life expectancy,_ evaporates the calmness between the two of them. Hank pushes himself up onto his elbow, looking down at Marc with a feeling of near betrayal. “Don’t talk about that.”

He’s not sure if it’s the shaken note in his tone, or if it’s the look on his face, but he sees the apology in Marc’s eyes before he feels it against his lips.

It’s the kind of kiss reserved for shitty losses, the _it’ll be okay, baby,_ kiss. Hank succumbs to it, lets Marc pull him back to his chest, kiss away his fears. For that day, at least, they can go without.

* * *

They have four days between the Penguins and the Kings, and by the time LA comes around, the conversation with Jordan has been put out of Henrik’s mind. They’re still home for this game, and the win streak continues, though the game does go to a shoot out. Hank’s frustrated and sloppy in his play, even though they do scrape by a win, he’s not pleased with his performance in the slightest.

Either the media know this and don’t bother asking, or they’ve been warned off by some PR person up somewhere told them to leave him well enough be.

The road trip to New Jersey and subsequent loss to the Devils the very next day doesn’t do anything for his emotional state.

They return home the next day, each player going to shake off their own disappointments. Hank exudes an aura of “do not touch me” and everyone heeds it.

Everyone, except Marc.

Henrik’s about two feet from his car when he hears Marc’s approach. He’s really not in the mood to deal with anyone else right now, but he’s not about to shove Marc away. When he turns around to face him, though, he doesn’t bother with niceties.

“What do you want –”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Hank blinks at the question, eyes a little wide as he tries to count back. “Er…”

“It was after the Thrasher’s game, wasn’t it.” Marc crosses his arms in front of him, and Hank feels distinctly like he’s being scolded.

“I’m a grown man, I can handle eating on my own.”

“Not when you haven’t for eight days, during which you had three games,” Marc retorts. “What the hell, Hank?”

“We’re not doing this here.”

“You’re damn right we’re not. Come with me, you’re not going home.”

Hank’s beyond frustrated, with himself and the situation, and also more than a little bit hangry, now that he’s added up the time since his last meal. “You’re not my keeper, Marc.”

Marc turns around and grabs him by the arm, pulling him in close. He smells even better up close, and Hank can’t help the way he leans in closer, lips parted, to take in more of the sweet smell.

“You meant it when you said that I ruined you for everyone else, didn’t you,” he mutters, looking down at Hank with pupils blown wide.

Hank just nods, stepping as close as he can, trying to get what his whole body is craving, with a physical ache in his chest.

“We spent four days together, why didn’t you feed then?” Marc asks, stepping backwards now, leading Hank to his car.

“Didn’t want to take again so soon. It’s not healthy, and you had to play too,” Hank mumbles, following Marc without hesitation.

Marc just sighs. “You’re a fucking idiot. Get in the car.”

Hank climbs in the opened door, and everything inside the car smells like Marc, and he closes his eyes and tries not to lose it right then and there. When Marc himself enters the car, starting it up and throwing it in reverse, it’s all Hank can ask of himself to keep his hands to himself.

Marc lives closer to the Garden than Hank does, an actual 20-minute drive away by normal standards. By the time they pull up to his house, Hank feels like it’s been hours. He doesn’t trust himself to move, instead waiting for Marc to take initiative. The redhead leaves the car and comes around to the passenger side, reaching in and taking Hank’s hand, pulling him out and guiding him to the front door.

If the car was teasing, the house was _torture._ Everything inside was coated in Marc’s smell, and Hank lets out a hissy whine.

Marc looks down at him with something like amused disbelief in his gaze, and leads the way to the bedroom. He hands Hank a pair of sweats and a New York Rangers tee, and starts to change himself. Hank takes the clothes and starts to change on impulse, but frowns the whole time. “Why –”

“Because I want to be comfortable while you get fed again, and my place was closer than taking the death ride to yours.”

Hank glares at him as he shrugs into the borrowed shirt. “It’s not a death ride.”

“Henke, the drive is supposed to take an hour. You do it in 30,” Marc replies, climbing onto the bed and propping some pillows up on the headboard. “It is a death ride.”

“No, it’s not. Its efficient. And it’s not safe for me to drink from you again, so unless you have some generous donations from the Red Cross lying around…”

“Hank, have you ever drank from a ‘shifter before.”

Henrik pauses, then mutely shakes his head.

“Right. Because our ability to replenish bodily fluids is more efficient than the average human, and gets more efficient the higher our level. I had all my blood back by the time we landed back in New York after the Thrashers game. You starved yourself for nothing.”

Hank, sufficiently chastised, makes his way over to the edge of the bed. Everything here smells so good, and he crawls closer to Marc, nuzzling right at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Are you sure?” he mumbles, his fangs already brushing Marc’s skin.

In answer, Marc just slid a hand to the back of Hank’s head, threading his fingers into his hair, and pushed him down.

Hank bit in, and felt the first bit of relaxation that he’d felt in days. It was near euphoric, and though he hears the soft whimpers, he doesn’t realize they’re coming from him. Marc continues to pet him, gently shushing when he can. Several minutes pass, and over the course of that time he eventually stretches out his body so he’s laying over Marc, pressed up against him.

In time, he reaches his fill, and pulls off, licking the resulting bruised mark. He rocks back a bit, and it pulls a groan from both him and Marc. He hadn’t realized he’d been getting hard during this. Experimentally, he rolls his hips again, and definitely feels that he’s not the only one.

Marc pulls Hank up for a kiss, not minding the metallic taste of his own blood still in the goaltender’s mouth. One hand slides down to squeeze Hank’s hip, urging him to continue. Hank reaches between them to palm at Marc’s length, and the defenseman bucks his hips up, spreading his legs a bit to encourage Hank to explore.

The Swede’s fingers trace along the waistband of Marc’s sweatpants, pausing at the center. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, looking up through his lashes to Marc.

“Never,” is his breathless answer.

He leans up to kiss Marc again, more demanding than before, and slides his hand down into Marc’s pants. Upon finding out that Marc’s not wearing any underwear, he groans, and pulls back to look down and appreciate the sight before him.

“You’re so easy for it, aren’t you älskling,” he coos, rubbing his thumb along Marc’s tip. He watches him twitch in response, biting his lower lip and clearly trying to muffle himself. “Don’t keep your noises to yourself, I want to hear you,” he whispers, smearing the freely dripping precum along his length.

Marc fists his hands in the sheets, hips canting up to try and get closer to Henrik’s touch. If they had more time, he’d stretch this out for longer, tease Marc until he couldn’t take it anymore, but he’d much rather get off now, rather than later. They’ll always have more time.

Hank pulls his own pants down to his thighs and leans back over to kiss Marc. He grips both their cocks together, slowly rocking his hips into the shared grip. Marc whines into the kiss, rocking his hips up in kind.

“Please, please, please…”

“You don’t have to beg, this time around. Come for me,” Hank croons.

Marc’s orgasm stains both of their shirts, and Hank’s not far along after. The release moves like lightning through his body, making every nerve feel alive at the same time, before fading out, leaving him humming in the afterglow.

Marc lays panting beneath him, his lips kiss swollen and red. Hank holds his dirtied fingers up to Marc’s mouth. He obediently licks and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact with Hank. He presses a kiss to Marc’s forehead in response.

Stripping them of their dirty shirts takes little work, and soon they’re curled up together again. After a few moments to catch their breath, Marc hesitantly asks, “Has that ever…happened to you before?”

Henrik, already feeling much better from both the meal and orgasm, lazily shakes his head. “It’s like I said, älskling. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

* * *

They spend the following day at Marc’s house, since Marc has actual food and knows his way around the kitchen marginally more than Hank does. Hank doesn’t bother trying to pull his scent in any closer, leaving his mark wherever he so pleases.

Marc never calls him on it, especially since Hank virtually lived in Marc’s clothes for that day.

Eventually, they have to go back to the rink to get Hank’s car, so Hank could go back home and get ready for the game the next day.

They part with another kiss, and a few of Marc’s t-shirts in exchange for a handful of Hank’s.

* * *

They lose 4-2 to the Flyers at home.

They spend that night in each other’s arms, too tired to do much else. To have a losing streak building off of an only recently broken one never feels good.

Henrik tries to retreat back into himself, but with Marc around, he finds it easier to move forward.

* * *

They’re tied with less than a minute left in the second. Hank’s standing at his end of the rink, watching the fight for the puck brew at the other end. A loose puck off a shot from someone, and Marc picks it up, fending from Pitkanen, head down in the corner.

Marc doesn’t see the hit coming.

Henrik can’t do anything about it.

Eric drops his shoulder, checking his brother in the head with enough momentum to flip him over, landing him splayed out on the ice. The puck winds up passed to Larose, but a penalty is called before he winds up too deep in Hank’s zone.

He watches as the boys swarm around the referees, watches up on the jumbotron as they show the hit again in slow motion, from different angles. It cuts back to Eric’s face where he’s being held by the refs.

Hank watches as Eric throws some irritably confused looks towards the refs and his brother, as if not knowing why he was called for what was, technically, a clean check.

Henrik doesn’t even have to listen to the call to know it’ll be reversed. He squirts some water in his face, trying to shake off the fact that he knows damn well what that hit was for.

* * *

The game goes to shoot out.

When Hank passes Cam on the way to his bench, he doesn’t imagine the double take Cam gives him.

Marc catches his eye and shakes his head minutely, trying to tell him what he told all the medics and refs and coaches. That he was fine, the hit didn’t do any damage. He was just slow to get up, is all.

Hank buys none of it, and takes that dissatisfaction with him to the crease.

When they win the shoot out, he doesn’t silence his victorious snarl.

* * *

Marc plays the rest of the season, setting career highs in assists and points. It’s not until pre-season training for the 2011-2012 season that it comes out that Marc’s suffering from post-concussion symptoms. He doesn’t see game time until January.

A month later, they celebrate their anniversary with warm kisses and gifts exchanged in the Philadelphia hotel. They’d had to been careful when they brought them in, what with the team and all. But Hank adored the diamond hourglass cufflinks (“Because you’re timeless.”) and Marc loved the plain silver bracelet that simply read “ _älskling_ ” in amethyst (“For protection against negativity, and to remind you that I love you.”) so it was all worth it in the end.

(Marc still had to be careful to have the bracelet hidden when around the other Swedes on the team.)

Henrik doesn’t go easy when they play Carolina.

They win every game against them that season.

* * *

Then, the lockout happens.

The Staal brothers were returning to Thunder Bay, Hank finds out, to remain there until the lockout was finished. It made sense, given that some of the rules under review included the terms of playing with regards to non-humans in the league. Hank himself thought that his presence would be better taken in Sweden.

It wouldn’t be the first time that they were separate for a few months at a time. They could handle it.

Or so Hank told Marc when he pressed a kiss to his knuckles before leaving. It was a killer flight, at 1:30 in the morning, but to get to Sweden at a reasonable hour meant making sacrifices like this.

In twelve hours, Marc would be making his own flight back to Thunder Bay. Normally they wouldn’t have flown back, but they didn’t want to give any potential argument for why they shouldn’t be allowed to play in the NHL.

Look like a human, talk like a human, travel like a human, and they just might forget that you aren’t human.

His phone chirps just before his flight is set to take off.

_Actually remember to eat this time. Don’t make me text Joel._

Hank raises an eyebrow and quickly responds.

_Why are you awake? And you don’t even have his number._

_Couldn’t sleep. And that’s what you think; I have my ways~_

_You’re a dork._

_You love it._

Hank doesn’t know how to respond to that. The safety video starts to play, and he turns his phone off.

Better to worry about that later.

* * *

The text still waits for him by the time he lands several hours later. Gabriella’s waiting for him at the airport, leaning against her car. Henrik walks over to her, not saying anything as he sweeps her up into a hug. Burying his nose in her hair, he takes in the familiar lemons and cream scent of his sister.

“Missed you,” he mumbles, and she wraps her arms around him in turn, squeezing him tight against her.

“Missed you too,” she replies, pulling him down to give him a kiss on the forehead. “You’re looking well,” she adds, gaze roving over his face critically.

He wrinkles his nose as he grins at her, before wriggling out of her hold, moving his bags to the backseat. “And you’re looking as ethereal as ever.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she chastises as she slips into the driver’s seat. Hank follows suit in the passenger seat, pulling his phone out of his pocket to look at it. The time reads 18:30, and he quickly clicks the lock button again. Not that the time means anything other than that his sister was punctual, as per usual, but seeing those numbers together was too much.

Gabriella waits, mercifully, until they’re on the highway. It’s a good ten minutes of quiet, but he knows it won’t last.

“How’s tennis goi–”

“So what’s his name?” she interrupts, looking over at him with a gleeful expectant expression. So much for his attempt to head her off at the pass.

“What makes you think there is one?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the blush from rising to his cheeks.  
“You’ve been staring at your locked phone since you entered the car, like you’re waiting for something to jump out at you. You smell like Something Else, and you look like a brooding wife waiting for her husband to return from war. So what’s his name?” The cockiness of an older sister radiates from her, and Hank rolls his eyes.

“…Marc. Marc Staal.”

Gabriella’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as she looks straight ahead, obviously trying to reign in her curiosity. “And that’s it? That’s all the information you have for your only sister?”

Hank shakes his head. “You’re a smart girl, you can figure it out on your own.”

“Henke, I want to knoooow. Wait, does Joel know? _Did you tell him before me?_ You and your stupid twin shit, you share _nothing_ with me,” she complains.

“Oh please, like you two don’t gossip enough amongst yourselves. A better question to ask would be what theories you’ve shared with each other,” he replies, suspicious now.

“Just hush, Henke, you’re acting like it’s the end of the world. Joel’s home anyway, you can ask him when we get there.”  

“Wait, what do you mean, he’s home? I thought his season was going on like normal?” Hank questions, turning to look at her fully now.

Gabriella’s jaw tightens a bit, but she only spares Hank a fleeting glance. “The SHL isn’t having a lockout like you are, but there have been talk of some rule revisions. You’ve heard the rumors by now, haven’t you?”

“Not much of anything, no. Been too caught up in the politics of salary caps in America. What’s happening here?”

“Well the league is facing the possibility of a bunch of new players, since the NHL doesn’t have any games coming up.”

“Right…”

“But some of the players looking for ways to play aren’t human. The KHL is facing serious public backlash, since they’re debating keeping, what’s his face, Malkin?, from playing. Public scrutiny is at an all time high.”

“How does that affect us, though?”

“Sweden’s under scrutiny too, since the rules here have been changing. Joel’s offseason was longer than normal, and right now they’ve more or less placed him on waivers. If no one picks him up, Frölunda has to deal with the consequences. It’s a bit of a mess. He could use some good news.”

“And he can’t try to go to the NHL because no one can agree on what’s good for the league as a whole,” Hank finishes, leaning back in his seat with a defeated sigh. “Great.”

“Hey, at least now you two can be miserable together,” she replies, reaching over and ruffling his hair.

“Misery does love company.”

* * *

His chest feels lighter the moment he enters the house. Though the decorations spanned centuries, their tastes haven’t wavered all that much over time. Memorabilia from different hockey teams, some no longer existing, rest in glass cases along the walls. Henrik brushes his fingers along the ornate wood, acclimating himself with the house they’d shared for recent years.

Gabriella walks past him, her fingers brushing the span of his shoulders, on her way to the kitchen. He turns to follow her, but footsteps on the stairs redirect his attention.

He hasn’t seen Joel in person in quite a few months, but he can already see the effect that this change in the tide of sports politics has unsettled him. When they hug, they don’t let go for a long while.

* * *

Later that night, the three of them laze around on the sectional with various blankets of differing materials covering them. Joel’s the only one sitting up, right in the middle, with Gabriella and Hank’s heads in his lap. A fire gently permeates the room with a yellow, glowing warmth.

They’d each kept the subject far from the politics of hockey, instead talking about personal bests and cherished moments. Like all conversations, their words drifted and ebbed, dipping into different topics, chasing each other in collaborative circles. The recent topic, Gabriella’s newfound desire to go skiing for the first time in nearly 50 years, had fallen still, resting between the three of them.

Hank’s eyes have long since drifted shut, content to just bask in the presence of his family, the ones he himself had made. The legends vastly overrated the importance of connecting the creator with their creations, but it still felt nice. Family is family, after all.

He hears the soft, wet sounds from Gabriella trying to mouth something to Joel, knowing that whispering was worthless. Even if Hank were asleep, he had the best hearing of the three of them, something that was both a blessing and a curse on the ice.

He reaches over, palming her face without moving his head. “What are you plotting,” he mumbles, cheek squished by Joel’s thigh.

She huffs against his palm, but shakes her head. “Nothing nefarious, tell him, Joel.”

Hank feels his twin shrug. “I don’t even know what she’s talking about.”

“Really?” Hank rolls over slightly, enough to peer up at his brother. “You sure about that?”

“Oh just tell him Henke, it’s good news!” Gabriella urges, rolling over to her stomach, propping her chin up on her hands. Henrik knows either he can say something, or she’ll press on with it.

“Tell me what?” Joel asks, looking down at the two of them with a raised brow.

“ _You_ can tell him, since it means so much to you.”

“Henke, that takes the meaning out of it! Share with your brother!”

“Share _what_ with me?”

Hank looks at Gabriella upside down, her red smile looking like an enthusiastic frown from his angle. “…I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Gabriella squees, and hides her face in her hands, clearly enjoying this.

“Well if that’s it –”

“No no! Henke, tell him who it is!”

Hank lets out a wounded groan and curls back up on his side, facing the fire. “Marc Staal, a defenseman for the Rangers.”

Hank doesn’t have to see Joel’s face to imagine the expression. They have the same face, after all.

“Isn’t it romantic?” Gabriella coos, jostling the both of them as she sits up. She tugs the cream fur tighter around her, sitting back against the curved arm of the couch. “I couldn’t get any details out of him on the ride, so I have no idea how long this has been going on, but isn’t it exciting? Little Henke, all grown up.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, half muffled by Joel’s knee.

Joel, for his part, places a placating hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Hey, no, she’s right. I’m happy for you, Henrik. Little bit confused about why you didn’t tell us, but still happy for you.”

“I just…didn’t know what to think of him, at first. We’re the only two non-humans on the team – well, we didn’t start off that way, back when we had Jagr, but when he was traded, we were all that was left. It…well I guess we formally acknowledged what was there a couple games after the All Star game last season.”

“Who made the first move?” Joel asks, the more levelheaded of the three at the moment.

“It was mutual. Apparently he’d been harboring feelings since his rookie year.”

“That’s…a long time. At least we know it’s not a passing curiosity.”

Hank huffs a mirthless laugh. “Funny, that’s what his brother thought, too. Well two of them, but I can only assume that it’s an opinion amongst all three of them.”

“What, did they try to say something?” Gabriella prompts.

“Eric, the eldest, tried to at the All Star game. I didn’t take it seriously, he’s only a level three shapeshifter. Then Jordan tried something when we next played the Penguins after…” He trails off, before pushing himself up into a sitting position besides his brother. Running a hand through his hair, he stares down at the hardwood floor, tracing the knots and whorls with his gaze. He can feel their gaze on him, four holes in his shield of ignorance, and he continues in a hoarse whisper after a few seconds.

“…after I drank from him.”

Gabriella’s jaw drops, her own fangs visible in his periphery. Joel continues staring, expectant.

Hank fidgets. “…What.”

“You didn’t tell me you drank from him! How many times?” Gabriella squawks from her end of the couch, hands balling up the fur spread over her shoulders.

“…Uhm…”

“Henrik Lundqvist, how many times did you drink from him!”

“The entirety of last season, and some in the off season.” He looks up at them, swallowing a bit at the memories. “He…tastes really good.”

“And that’s safe for him?” Joel asks, speaking for the first time since Hank came clean.

“He says so, yeah. And he’s never really showed any negative symptoms, or I would have stopped, but, he’s pretty much all I’ve needed. Even as frequent as we need to eat during the season.”

There’s a pelt from a wolf on the couch, red and grey fur blending together. He looks at that instead of at his siblings’ faces, running his fingers through the fur. The red reminds him of Marc, and he remembers that he hasn’t actually texted him back since before the flight. Then he remembers that his phone is upstairs charging in his room, having died earlier in the night. Climb over the back of the couch, take the steps two at a time, check his messages, text something back to Marc; it was doable.

“Henke.”

Or not.

“You know what happens when we drink from the same person repeatedly.”

Hank bristles at the patronizing, placating tone from his sister. Childishly, he doesn’t look at her, instead continuing to run his fingers against the grain of the pelt. “That only happens if we’re in love with the person, Gabriella.”

“Aren’t you?” It’s Joel that speaks that time, and while he doesn’t have quite the same patronizing tone, it’s still too gentle for Hank’s taste. He stands, hips and knees cracking as he does so, stiff from being in one position for too long.

“I’m tired, had a long flight. I’ll see you in the morning. Godnatt.” He doesn’t look back as he climbs the stairs, heading down the hall and into his own bedroom. He closes, then locks, the door behind him.

His phone illuminates one corner of the bedside table, Instagram and Twitter notifications, mostly. He recognizes the rainbow and blue logos. The series of little green circles, though, draws his attention.

Swiping open his phone, he clicks on the messenger app, seeing his conversation with Marc has several new messages in it.

_Eric and Jordy told our parents. Didn’t take it so well. Keep going on about the implications of one of their boys going for a vampire, much less a male one. I got pissed; almost threw Eric under the bus. Almost told them about him and Jeff._

_I knew it wouldn’t be fair to Jeff, though, to drag him into this before he was ready, so. I didn’t do that._

_I needed to get out of the house, went for a run. That turned into a flight. That turned into a run again. I don’t know where I’m gonna end up, but I’ll keep you updated._

_I miss you._

The last message was delivered 40 minutes ago. Henrik’s hand shakes as he rereads the messages, collapsing onto his bed like a puppet with no strings. He types a response, deletes it, then types out another one, then deletes that. His indecision paralyzes his fingers, but the thought of Marc alone out there, somewhere, potentially in a nation that was in the midst of revising its laws regarding beings like him, pushed him into action.

_I miss you too. Stay safe._

He hesitates before adding one final additional thought.

_Come home to me._

* * *

At 10 in the morning in Sweden, 4 in the morning on the easternmost coast of America, Henrik’s phone receives a single message.

_Okay._

* * *

He doesn’t tell his siblings about the texts right away. If they sense that something is up, they don’t press. Hank does make an effort to apologize to them, though, for how he had acted the night prior.

“It’s okay,” Joel assures him from where he’s watching TV in the den. “You’re always pissy after long flights anyway.”

Hank throws a slipper at his head.

All’s back to normal.

* * *

The rest of the day’s filled with taking Gabriella to her practice, and then heading to the gym with his brother. The exhaustion feels good, the burning feels great, and he wishes he could find some ice somewhere and take some shots from Joel. If he allows his mind to wander, he can almost feel the sliding friction of the ice beneath his blades, hear the calls of his teammates over the ice.

One voice stands out from the others, the same one that he’s heard lazy and soft, breathless and weak, commanding and strong, in memories that blend together. Hank hangs his head, rivulets of sweat running down his face. Droplets collect on the display screen of the bike beneath him, swelling the red numbers beyond their clear, rectangular shapes. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to steady his breath.

He hears Joel come up beside him, fresh off the treadmill.

“Feel ready to go?” he pants, still not opening his eyes.

“Only if you are,” Joel replies, patting Hank’s shoulder. “You sure you don’t need another 10 minutes?”

Hank debates, but knows that it’s not going to do him any good. He’s at his limit, now. “Yeah, I’m good.” He gets off the bike and leads the way back to the lockers. When he gets there, he checks his phone.

No new messages.

_I’m getting worried, älsking. At least let me know if you’re safe._

He hits send, then watches the screen, as if he’ll see the little dots that mean Marc’s okay. He doesn’t, and has to tell himself that Marc’s fine.

He has to be.

* * *

Another 24 hours pass with no message from Marc. Hank gives in and calls, but the line goes straight to voicemail.

_Hey, it’s Marc Staal. Well, not really me. It’s a machine. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you when I can._

Hank doesn’t leave a message. Instead, he just replays those words, over and over again. Distorted by distance and time, the voice wasn’t the same one he wanted to hear. But it would have to do.

* * *

Three days since the last text from Marc, a snowstorm blows in. Not unusual for this time of year, and good for business, once the storm itself stopped. The snow is a boon for the snowboarding and skiing industries, but it only covered the frozen lakes and ponds and made it hard to even entertain the notion of hockey.

Perhaps that was the point of it, some sign from something up above saying to put that dream on hold. No substantial talks had been mentioned in America yet, the League and NHLPA not seeing eye to eye in the slightest.

Hank spent most of these days reading and trying not to worry over where Marc was or what had happened to him. Marc was powerful, Hank knew that, but he wasn’t the worst thing out there.

Not by a long shot.

It’s around 3 in the morning, now. Hank’s stretched out in bed, flipping through the news on his phone. He’d finished the novel he’d started the day prior, and never actually got around to buying another one when he’d gone to the bookstore with Gabriella. He’s tired, and can feel his eyes starting to close of their own accord, when he hears a light tapping sound at the window.

He freezes, body tightening with a fight or flight response mixed with a kind of painful hope that he can’t begin to describe. He waits, until he hears it again, more insistent this time. Like something heavier hitting the glass.

Swinging his legs out of the bed, he turns his bedroom light off, eyes acclimating to the darkness easier without the contrast. He approaches the long windows, covering an entire wall of his room. Shapes and shadows play in the rapidly falling snow, and it’s only because of this dusty white covering that he’s able to see the bird so clearly.

Outside, there’s a golden eagle, clutching something in its talons. It shuffles it’s feathers with an irritated air, trying to keep the snow from settling. When it makes eye contact with Hank, something seems to click into place in his chest, and he just _knows._

He cranks open the window, reaching outside and gently picking the bird up with two hands and placing it on the desk inside the room, before turning to close the window. He hears the sound of something much heavier than an eagle hitting the floor, and when he turns around, Marc is standing there, bare skin flushed from the cold.

Hank wraps him up in a hug that Marc returns with shivering arms. “I missed you so much, I was so worried,” Hank whispers into Marc’s neck, making the defenseman tighten his grip.

“I’m sorry, it took longer than I thought…and then my phone was broken so I couldn’t say anything to you, but try to get here faster. Henke, I tried, I really –” Marc’s voice, hoarse from disuse, cracks and fades as he stands there, gripping Henrik as tightly as he can.

Hank shushes him, lifting his head and pulling him into a kiss. Marc’s entire body is frozen from the journey, and he pulls him back to his bed. “You’re here now, älskling. Just, get some sleep.”

He guides Marc beneath the covers, pushing him over to where he had just been laying. The residual warmth both helped to kick start him warming up, as well as remarking him with Hank’s scent. Henrik pulls him closer, tucking Marc’s head under his chin. He hardly flinches when frozen fingers splay against his back, a cold nose pressed at the hollow in his throat. He nuzzles against the cold and wet hair pressed to his face – Marc smells sweet, like he always does, but cold and sad, at the same time.

Hank whines at the note of sadness, tangling their legs together as if to fight off the loneliness one cuddle at a time. Marc’s scent spikes in relief, but also desperation. He’s shaking in Hank’s arms, and he knows it’s partially from the journey and partially from the high conflicting emotions running through his body.

Henrik runs his hand down Marc’s back, the other buried in his hair and massaging gently. He murmurs soft nothings in a mixture of Swedish and English, all reassuring Marc that he won’t leave, that Marc doesn’t have to leave, and that he is more than welcome to stay there for as long as he needs.

Eventually, Marc’s grip lessens as he gives in to sleep. Hank follows soon after.

* * *

It’s noon by the time Hank wakes up again. Marc’s still curled up against him, his body having adjusted to the warmth relatively quickly. He takes a moment just to watch him, the even breaths and relaxed face of someone finally escaping the stresses of the world around them. In the afternoon light, Marc’s freckles stand out in a way Hank loves. He wants to take a picture, hang them on the wall, as a tribute to the unconscious beauty within his…

…What was Marc to him, anyway?

They had never put a label on things, other than a vague feeling of _This is my person, you can’t have him_ , and that seemed to work just fine for the both of them. And Henrik couldn’t feel anything that suggested Gabriella’s fears were confirmed, so they weren’t mates, as far as vampires went.

But the customs and traditions of shapeshifters were different. Henrik didn’t know how those operated, or if perhaps that was why the Staal clan was so driven to keep them apart. Could they have already fulfilled whatever requirements there were? Either way, Hank decides, it’s not worth fretting over now.

No need to add extra stress to Marc’s life.

He gently extricates himself from Marc’s embrace, and pulls himself out of bed. He can smell Joel and Gabriella awake and moving around downstairs, and he knows when he goes out in the hallway, they’ll immediately descend upon him.

Still, he takes the time to brush his teeth and wash his face in the en-suite, before laying out some clothes for Marc to change into. He’s taller than Hank, so he puts out his longest pair of pajama pants as an option, with boxers and a t-shirt on top of that.

Then it’s time to face the music.

* * *

Joel and Gabriella are waiting at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, looking at him with unimpressed faces.

“…Did you two rehearse this?” Hank asks, pausing briefly on the stairs.

“I dunno. Did you rehearse sneaking your boyfriend in here in the middle of the night?” Gabriella replies, raising an eyebrow.

Henrik sighs and descends the stairs. “Look, it was a last minute thing, it wasn’t like –”

“Yes, because Ontario to Sweden is really a flight that can be made last minute, with absolutely no time to tell your siblings what you were planning,” Joel jumps in. He doesn’t seem as hurt as Gabriella does, more…wary, instead. “Why did he leave?”

“There was some trouble with his family, and he couldn’t stay.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Are they going to be coming after him?”

These are both good questions, but Hank only has the answer to one. “It’s not really my place to say, but his brothers said some things to his parents that they didn’t take kindly to. He left to clear his head, texted me about it, and I told him he could come here. Then it was three days of silence, I didn’t know if he actually took the advice or if things worked out at home and he didn’t need to leave anymore, or if…”

“…if something worse had happened,” Joel finishes. He looks over at Gabriella, communicating something, and Hank watches the fight leave them rapidly.

“…So when do we meet this guy?”

“He came in at three in the morning, he’s still asleep now. I wouldn’t expect to hear anything from him any time soon. Oh, and you two leave him alone. My room’s off limits as long as he’s here.”

“Dang it, we both wanted so badly to get in the middle of our emotionally repressed brother and his secret lover. Cancel our plans for tonight, Joel, looks like we have a clear night after all.” Gabriella turns after her parting quip to wander back into the den, resuming whatever she had been doing before hand.

Hank just looks at Joel beseechingly, before the younger twin sighs. “She means well. If anything, I think she’s just a bit miffed that you didn’t tell her ahead of time. You know how mom was.”

They didn’t really talk about their parents all that often, especially since the memories they did have of them were hazy. But one thing Hank did remember was the concern with which their mother extended to everyone in their little village. A bleeding heart, they called her.

“That I do,” he agrees.

* * *

A few minutes later, after making sure that Gabriella wasn’t _actually_ mad at him, he pads back upstairs to check on Marc. When he enters the room, he sees Marc sitting up in bed, holding the sheets to his nose. The moment he hears Hank’s arrival, he turns, eyes wide with disbelieving hope.

“…I actually made it?” he whispers, and oh, doesn’t that just break Hank’s heart.

“Yes, älskling, you made it.” He makes his way over to the bed, climbing in astride Marc. He cups his cheeks in his hands, studying Marc’s face. Marc’s hands settle on Hank’s lower back, rubbing at the skin there beneath the worn-thin sleep shirt. “I didn’t hear from you for three days, Marc. What happened?”

Marc meets his gaze evenly, even as he nuzzles into Hank’s hands. “When I texted you I’d left the house to clear my head. Hung out at this old coffee shop for a bit, and then decided to go back home, see if I could salvage anything with them. Parents wouldn’t see me, Eric was about three minutes away from fighting me. We started yelling again, and then Dad more or less told me to leave and come back ‘when I have my head on straight.’” Marc chuckles at that, though it’s without humor. “Then I texted you I was coming here. I had to ask around a bit, but Hags was surprisingly helpful in terms of where exactly Åre was. And then of course my phone was fucked, so I had to just rely on memory.”

He pauses, and Henrik pulls him closer, resting their foreheads together. “Then how did you find me?”

“I got to Stockholm just from memory, and asking a few people here and there. And then I knew that Åre was north, so I started trekking that way…and then, at some point, I just kind of, I dunno, felt it? In my chest, like a pulling feeling. Kinda felt like someone was hooking me, over and over again. So I followed that, and when I got here it was just by instinct that I found you. And here we are.” 

Henrik listens to Marc’s brief recount of what happened, but when he mentions feeling some kind of attachment, he pauses. That sort of physical bond, that connection, is but one of the symptoms of becoming a _själsfrände._ A soulmate.

But that means that Marc must love him, and he’s not sure how he feels about knowing that one half of a bond has already begun to form. Not only is it then immensely unfair to Marc if his own never forms, but it’s also a problem if it _does_ form. With vampires tending to remain within their own kind as much as possible, interspecies bonds were rare to begin with. Did they still work the same, in principle? What happens if one of them is mortal?

And, much more selfishly, what effect would this have on their hockey?

“Henke?”

Marc’s tentative voice brings him out of his thoughts, and he leans forward to kiss him in apology. “I’m sorry, älskling, that that happened. But I’m happy you’re here. Did you…you didn’t bring anything with you, right?”

The shapeshifter motions to the bedside table, where a cracked and waterlogged phone sits. “That was all that I took with me. In retrospect, I’m kind of glad it was. Don’t want to know what else would have gotten messed up along the way.”

“Then we need to take you shopping. You can wear some of my clothes if you want, but, you are a bit bigger than me,” Hank sheepishly admits. “Oh, and, my siblings already know that you’re here.”

“Is that where you went?”

“Well, yes, but also they smelled you last night, so…it wasn’t a secret to begin with.”

Marc bites his lower lip, seeming to stew something over. Then he shrugs, and moves his hands up to Henrik’s shoulders. “Think we should face the music, then?”

“Only if you want to, I told them to leave you be while you were here.”

“I’m from a big family, Hank. I can handle having a few more nosy siblings.” They’re interrupted by Marc’s stomach growling. He blushes, and Hank laughs.

“C’mon, you need some food anyway. Hop up and put on some clothes, we’ll see what we can get.” He gets up from Marc’s lap, and once they’re both dressed – the borrowed pants fit Marc surprisingly adequately – they head downstairs.

Gabriella looks up as soon as they begin their descent, and when she sees Marc, her eyes widen. She stands off the couch and walks over, grinning already.

Hank makes introductions before Gabriella can speak. “Marc, this is my older sister, Gabriella. And Joel’s around here somewhere.”

“He went out to the garage, he’s messing around with the cars or some such thing,” Gabriella replies, waving away Hank’s words. “And it’s so nice to finally meet you, Marc. Hank hadn’t told us _anything_ about you, so while I would say that I’ve heard so much about you, that would be a lie.”

Marc blushes, chewing his lower lip. “It’s nice to meet you too, Gabriella. I’m sorry for sleeping in so late, I got in –”

“In the middle of the night, I know. I heard you, but figured it was Henke’s problem,” she replies with a sunny smile.

Joel walks in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Has our guest finally awoken?” he asks, in Swedish, only to pause upon seeing Marc. “Never mind, I see for myself,” he continues, in English.

“Joel, right?” Marc asks.

“Yes, the better looking twin here, at your service.”

“Well I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” Hank mutters, ears bright red.

Joel only grins, fangs clearly visible. “It’s okay, Henke, you don’t have to agree. We all know it’s true.”

“We have the same face, Joel.”

“It’s my youthful exterior.”

“We’re _immortal._ ”

Marc chuckles at the banter between brothers. Henrik feels a little bit guilty at that, knowing that his own relationship with his siblings was a far cry from that of the Staal brothers. Especially in recent events, was it really fair to be rubbing it in his face like this? But when he turns to look at Marc, he just sees the same private, gentle smile that he saves just for Hank. He answers it with one of his own.

He catches Gabriella and Joel sharing a look in his periphery, but when he looks at them, they hold their hands up in innocence.

“It’s just nice to see you happy, Henke. That’s all,” Gabriella murmurs, before fixing her gaze to Marc. “And if there’s anything we can do for you, just ask, okay?”

“Thank you, but all I really want now is some food, if you don’t mi –”

“Oh my God I totally forgot! You eat actual food! Henrik why didn’t you tell me? We could have gotten things yesterday!”

Hank puts his head in his hands. “Gabriella, please,” he groans.

Marc slides his hand between Hank’s shoulder blades, rubbing gently. “It’s okay, Hank was going to take me shopping anyway. I need clothes and a new phone, so, it should be fine.”

“But you’re the guest! We should be providing for you!” Gabriella insists.

“Hank will _provide_ for him good enough, if you know what I mean,” Joel quips, wagging his eyebrows.

“Okay, you two are done, say your goodbyes now. We’re leaving.” Hank takes Marc’s hand and leads him to the door. Gabriella and Joel mutter amongst themselves in Swedish as they take their leave.

“Sorry for them, it’s kind of a novelty for me to bring anyone home. Or, to have anyone, really.” Marc just presses a kiss to Hank’s temple, amusement radiating off of him. “It’s fine, Henke. Really. Don’t worry about it. I get it, siblings will be siblings.”

Hank leans into the touch, nuzzling a bit closer to him. The future might be entirely up in the air, but at least, for this moment, they have each other.

* * *

The first thing they do is go to a breakfast place to get some breakfast sandwiches and coffee. Hank lets Marc wait in the car – he kind of forgot that Marc didn’t have shoes when they’d left the house – and when he returns, Marc gratefully accepts the sandwiches.

He’s kind of happy he got three when he sees the way Marc inhales the first two.

* * *

By seven, they have a complete wardrobe for Marc, including winter gear, and enough food to last about three weeks. With the up and down talks in America, there’s no real end in sight, and all Henrik knows is that Marc isn’t going home anytime soon. Besides; even though they don’t use the kitchen, they have all the appliances for appearances sakes.

He’s reasonably sure they work, but then again, he’s always been terrible in the kitchen.

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to cook your meals then,” Marc replies, when Hank relays this information to him. “Everything you eat comes ready made.” He winks, then, and Hank almost runs a red light.

* * *

By eight, the kitchen has been stocked for the first time since the Lundqvist siblings acquired the house. Marc makes himself dinner, chicken alfredo, and Hank watches from his perch on the island. He’d never gotten the hang of cooking, even when he needed it to survive. Watching how Marc makes himself at home amidst the knives and appliances, how he moves from pot to cutting board and back again settles something inside him. Something leftover from his human days.

He comes up behind Marc, wrapping his arms around his waist as he stirs the pasta, making sure it doesn’t stick to the edges of the pot. Marc turns and bends a little to press kisses to his temple, and he hums contentedly.

Marc doesn’t smell afraid anymore, but he is politely holding his scent in close, not trying to mark anything that doesn’t belong to him. Shamelessly, Hank rubs his cheek against Marc’s shoulder, taking his scent for himself.

He, certainly, doesn’t mind being marked.

* * *

**Leaked NHLPA Memo Unveils Players’ View of NHL CBA Negotiations** Sep 20, 2012

**Eric Macramalla**  
_@EricOnSportsLaw_  
Fehr: NHLPA proposed $260M/year in team rev sharing - $140M in regular sharing and $120M in assist to troubled team  
#sportslaw #lockout  
3:37pm – 20 Sep 2012

**Eric Macramalla**  
_@EricOnSportsLaw_  
#Fehr: NHL proposed lowering salaries to 49%, 48% in year 2 and 47% for last 4 seasons; reduction equals 14% (yr1), 16% (yr2) and 17.5%  
3:39pm – 20 Sep 2012

On the whole, the NHLPA executive is accusing the league of demanding the reduction of salaries with no benefit to the players thereafter.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Red Wings Executive Says Owners Won’t Let Players ‘Push Them Around’** Sep 21, 2012

“Now [NHLPA director] Donald Fehr would have you believe by getting rid of the cap, the owners would make more money and that the sky is the limit, but trust me Scott, the owners would lose their asses. We’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. There is just too much cost involved in running and owning a team.

It’s very complicated and way too much for the average Joe to understand, but having said that, I will tell you this: The owners can basically be viewed as the ranch, and the players, and me included, are the cattle. The owners own the ranch and allow the players to eat there. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it will be forever. And the owners simply aren’t going to let a union push them around. It’s not going to happen.” – Detroit Red Wings vice president, Jim Devellano

* * *

**Martin Havlat On NHL Lockout: ‘We’re Not Humans In Their Eyes’** Sep 24, 2012

“The comments made by Devellano are nothing new. The players know that’s how Bettman and some of the owners think, we’re not shocked at being called ‘cattle.’ I can tell you the players have been called a lot worse by some of the guys on the other side, it’s just never been reported publically. I think it helps that the fans get to hear what we already know, we’re not humans in their eyes, we’re just pieces of meat that get to eat some grass for awhile.” – San Jose Sharks forward, Martin Havlat

* * *

Henrik scrolls through the endless news stories, having put the talks in America to the backburner for the time being. His agent knows how to get ahold of him, and right now, no news is good news, because it means the talks are still happening.

Though, if these articles are anything to go by, it’s not talks that are happening.

It’s slander.

Marc looks up from where he’s reading a novel that he borrowed from Gabriella, nudges Hank’s thigh with his foot. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs.

Hank sighs and locks his phone, putting it on the side table. “Things are getting worse.”

“Are they saying anything about us?”

Hank knows that Marc means “us” as in non-humans, not “us” as in the two of them, but it still sends a brief thrill through him anyway. “Not that I can see, älskling. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, though.”

Marc nods, but doesn’t go back to his book. He’s studying Hank, and Henrik knows no matter how he tries to hide it isn’t going to work. When Marc’s onto something, he doesn’t let it go.

“Give me a summary of what you read.” It’s a quiet command, but Hank does so anyway. He reads a few of the quotes, to make sure he gets the wording right, but the situation doesn’t sound any better once he’s reading it aloud.

“Jesus…well there’s still the possibility of an 82 game season, right? Like, yeah, pre-season will be rushed, but they can come around. This won’t be like ’04-’05. It can’t be.”

Hank doesn’t know if Marc’s being optimistic for himself or for the both of them, but he reaches out and squeezes his knee in thanks anyway. “That’s what we’re hoping for.”

They’re quiet for a moment, the fire licking along the walls of the fireplace, curious kittens of yellow flame. The two of them are alone, now. Joel had gotten a call from his agent, requesting his presence in Gothenburg. He didn’t say if it was good news or bad news, just that they needed him there. Presumably, for testimony.

(Unsurprisingly, no team had taken Frölunda’s offer of leaving their captain on waivers. Now Frölunda was trying to clean up the mess, but Hank doesn’t have enough brain space to deal with two different leagues of hockey politics. He just hopes for the best.)

“How’s Joel doing?” Marc asks, putting a bookmark in the novel. He slides it onto the glass coffee table, before sliding further down the couch, his head and shoulders resting against the curved arm.

“Haven’t heard much from him, though that could be good news. In any case, I haven’t seen him on the actual news, so who knows.” Hank shifts and crawls up the couch, taking up residence on top of Marc’s stretched out body. They tangle together, covered in furs, and Hank gently noses at Marc’s neck.

He hasn’t fed in a while, but gym workouts and training weren’t the same thing as an actual NHL game, so he can stretch it out. It doesn’t stop the hunger forever, just makes it slightly more manageable to deal with.

Still, Marc smells delicious as he always does, and Hank presses a kiss to the exposed skin.

“Hungry?” His voice vibrates between the both of them, and Hank hesitates. Now that Marc was more or less fully recovered from his multi-day excursion, it was a possibility to drink from him. But he doesn’t want to impose, especially if it could have longer term problems for the both of them.

“Henke, you can say yes, you know. I’m good to go, honest.” Marc runs a hand through Hank’s hair, fluffing it up in a way that mimics the carelessness of bedhead.

“…Promise?”

“Henrik.” The use of his full name gets Hank to lift his head, meeting Marc’s gaze. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely.” The word falls from his lips before Hank can really think about it. He blushes a bit at the resulting smile he gets from Marc.

“Then trust me with this. When I say I’m good to go, I mean it. Drink up, babe.” He tilts his head to the side, and, well, how can Hank say no to that?

He bites in, and with each pull of blood he feels more settled, more grounded in Marc and only Marc. Everything else fades away, save for the gentle petting down his spine, the sweetness on his tongue, the steady heartbeat beneath his lips.

When he’s finished, he pulls back, licking to clean up the bite.

It starts with tingling in his lips. Then it moves to his tongue, then his throat, culminating in his chest. A low burning contentedness, but this flame, Henrik knows, will not be doused anytime soon.

He presses kisses along Marc’s throat, enjoying the small shivers it brings. He makes his way up Marc’s jaw, before kissing him fully. Marc’s hands run through his hair again, and he hums in pleasure at the feeling. The flame within his chest burns brighter, hotter now, more insistent.

Marc whimpers beneath his lips, a sound Hank greedily swallows.

He wants to get closer to Marc, to almost physically merge their bodies. He wants to be one with him, to feel their hearts beat in the same rhythm, to take up residence in Marc’s ribcage and protect and nourish him inside and out. It’s a strange, deeper than bone urge, and then it’s Hank who whimpers into the kiss. He wants to give more to Marc, more than he already has. He’s almost feverish with it, like something else altogether is driving him to do this, to get closer –

And then his world shifts as he’s flipped onto the couch, Marc hovering over him. When Marc goes in to kiss him again, he feels fangs brushing against his own. Confusion spikes within him, and Marc pulls back to rest his forehead against Hank’s.

“Fangs?” Hank asks, rather inelegantly.

Marc nips his lower lip in response, then brings a hand up to Hank’s cheek. The true vampire leans into the touch, the soothing smell of this vampire version of Marc – still sweet, but also homey, recognizing Marc as _one and the same_ – calming whatever instincts had crawled out from deep inside him.

A few moments pass, the two of them just holding onto each other. As one calms down, the other does as well, a cycle of even breathing that brings them back to normal.

When Hank next opens his eyes, he’s looking deep into russet iris’. “Vacker…” he murmurs, brushing the back of his knuckles over Marc’s cheek.

Marc blushes. Though he doesn’t know the word’s translation, the awestruck tone in Hank’s voice must have given some of it’s meaning away. “Henke…do you know what that was?” he whispers, almost hesitant to know.

“I…think I do. I have a hunch,” he admits, knowing they’re entering unknown territory now.

“Want to tell me, then? I’m a little bit…that was intense.” Marc’s fingers flex against the pillows he’s bracing himself on, and Hank reaches over to run his fingers up Marc’s inner arm.

“It was…Vampires can form bonds with individuals, if the circumstances are right. That was one such one trying to form,” he answers. “Normally, vampires bond within our own kind, so the instincts rebound off each other. Ours…it’s been trying to form for a while.”

“That pulling feeling, that lead me here, that was it, wasn’t it?”

“A part of it, yes.”

Marc settles himself down over Hank’s body, his weight a comforting presence. But even has he physically relaxes, his eyes don’t lose their intensity. “What are the right circumstances?” he murmurs.

“Frequent feeding from the same source, physical proximity, and intimacy both emotional and physical,” Hank answers, the words paraphrased from what little texts there were about interspecies vampiric bonds.

“So…so anyone that you feed from frequently, you could bond with them? If you were around them for long enough?” Marc asks, and Hank’s not imagining the underlying hesitancy and hurt.

He shakes his head, pulling Marc closer and kissing his forehead. “No, älskling. I would need to do all of that, and be in love with them. And they, with me.”

The words hang between them. Hank’s not sure if he’s got this right, if he said too much too soon. But when Marc lifts his head, those comforting reddish-brown hues held tears that made Hank’s heart sink in his chest.

“Marc, I –”

“You love me?” Marc’s voice cracks a bit on the words, and when he blinks, the tears fall.

Hank wipes the tears away, concern furrowing his brows. “Of course I do, Marc. How could I not? Älskling…you know what that means, right? What that translates to?”

Marc shakes his head, minutely.

“It means ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘darling,’ usually, but it can also mean ‘beloved.’ That’s what I think of when I think of you, Marc. It’s…”

“So you’ve loved me…been in love with me…for over a year? And you never said anything?”

“I didn’t want to make it into something that it wasn’t,” Hank answers, blushing a bit at his idiocy.

“I told you that I wanted you since my rookie year,” Marc insists, but he’s smiling now. “God, you stupid meatball. Of course I love you. I have for years now.”

Hank scrunches up his nose at the ‘meatball’ moniker. “It’s because I’m Swedish, isn’t it? The meatball thing.”

Marc laughs so hard he actually has to sit up to get more air. “Out of all of that… _all of that,_ your response is to ‘the meatball thing.’ Oh my God, why do I love you.” The fond expression on his face, though, makes it all worth it.

Hank still works a cold foot up Marc’s shirt in payback anyway.

* * *

For dinner that night, Marc makes Swedish meatballs. “Or, should I say, just regular meatballs, since we’re in Sweden and all.”

Hank wants to be mad, he really does, but Marc’s self-satisfied smirk puts his thoughts in another direction entirely.

When Marc realizes this, his smirk turns decidedly filthy.

* * *

They go to bed a few hours later, Hank stretched out over top of the covers, Marc brushing his teeth in the en-suite. With his eyes closed, he just listens to the sounds of Marc getting ready for bed, the sound of animals walking through the snow outside, his own heartbeat syncing with Marc’s across the room. The burning contentment from earlier flares lazily.

Now that Hank knows what it is, he feels content to mentally poke around it, to go into that space. He’s still a bit tangled up in the feeling when Marc returns, smelling of mint and aftershave. He nestles up to the new addition to the bed, humming softly as Marc presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

It’s silent for a little bit, the two of them enjoying the presence of the other. Then, Marc asks, slightly hesitantly, “Would you consider bonding with me?”

Hank lifts his head, looking at Marc with a slightly confused expression. Before he can say anything, Marc presses on.

“I mean, I know that you don’t have to. And, like, it’s probably tricky and who even knows if it could be done, but I mean…I am a level five. I could be a vampire, if that helped to seal it. I don’t know how long I could hold it but I mean, it can’t be that difficult, right?”

Hank presses a finger to Marc’s lips, silencing the rambling shapeshifter. “I do want to bond with you, älskling, I truly do. But we don’t know what effect this could have on us. I don’t want to jeopardize anything more than the lockout already has. I don’t want to give them another reason to look at us like we’re lesser than them, for whatever reason.”

“They’d just be jealous,” Marc grumbles, his lips still against Hank’s finger. “That they can’t have what we do. But…Henke I need you to answer something honestly.”

“Of course, yes.”

“If there wasn’t a lockout, if I wasn’t here right now, would you still consider it? Or are you only saying this because I’m here and you don’t want to disappoint me?”

Hank pushes himself up on his elbow, looking down at Marc with an earnest expression. “If there wasn’t a lockout, and if we were in New York like normal, yes, I would still consider it. Marc, the lockout didn’t cause me to think about bonding with you. That came on its own. The lockout just…helped it along, I guess.”

Marc looks at him, seemingly still not convinced, though slowly coming around to the idea.

“Gabriella thought we were already bonded, if that gives you any indication,” he adds, hoping this brings Marc to the same page as him. “I already did love you, even if I wasn’t exactly forthcoming with those words. Which, I’m sorry for. I didn’t mean to make you doubt this.”

He didn’t mean to make Marc feel insecure in any way. A lot of things he’d do for Marc, but forcing him through emotional rollercoasters was never the intent. “I promise you that.”

“I believe you, Henke.” And there’s that smile, that private tender one that softens all the edges and draws Hank in to kiss him.

“How did I get so lucky to have you?” Hank whispers against his lips.

“I dunno, meatball, but I am quite awesome,” Marc whispers back.

Henrik laughs, and leans over to turn off the light. They’re going to be okay.


	2. tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated the tags because more people show up in this chapter than they have before. again, hmu on [tumblr](http://matskreider.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions or just wanna talk about the fic **_!!_**

Two days later, the NHL announces the preseason is cancelled.

Upon hearing the news, Marc disappears for a few hours. When he returns, he smells like snow and mountain air. He lays down on the couch, dropping his head into Hank’s lap. Obediently, Hank begins to pet him.

At least the season is safe.

For now.

* * *

**NHL lockout 2012: Sides meet Friday, agree on drug testing, player safety issues** Sep 28, 2012

“In general, when you’re dealing with collective bargaining, when you start to have agreements on smaller issues, it can lead to bigger issues, but it’s still too early to say.” – NHLPA special assistant, Mathieu Schneider.

* * *

**NHL lockout 2012: Controversial Addendum to Player Safety Issues: Monsters, Demons to Count?** Sep 29, 2012

NHL commissioner Gary Bettman took a controversial position in Saturday morning meetings, citing demons and monsters to be accounted for in player safety regulations. While NHLPA leader Donald Fehr was not in attendance, Mathieu Schneider claimed that this was not the first time that an addendum such as this has been proposed by NHL officiates.

NHLPA Demon and Monster representatives have argued that this is discrimination, which goes against the terms set in the CBA’s of previous years, dating back to the 1994-1995 lockout season. “It’s not surprising; this is a business, after all. But I’ll tell you this, there are teams in this league that depend on players of non-human origins. They’re faces of their respective franchises. To demote players of this caliber down to a safety concern is not only discrimination, but also profiling,” Schneider asserted in a press conference after the meeting.

Bettman offered his take on it: “We make these guidelines so players can afford to play the game safely. We have these regulations made in mind for humans against humans; with the introduction of demons and monsters, the strength is disproportionately in their favor. The rules need to allow for that.”

Proposed changes include counting injuries sustained as a result of demon/monster hits or fights as grounds for fining the demon/monster involved, extending penalty time to three minutes for minor penalties for demons/monsters, and increasing suspension time for game misconduct penalties to a minimum of two games for demons/monsters. It should be noted that each of these changes only occur in non-human vs. human interactions. Non-humans against non-humans, it appears, have not had their rules changed.

* * *

**Lilian  
** @LilithActually  
New rules would force non-humans to out themselves when it might not be safe. Players &fans can be ruthless #AreWeTheMonstersNow  
4:59am – 30 Sep 2012

* * *

By October first, the internet is in an uproar over the controversy in the NHL. The tag “Are We The Monsters Now” reaches trending stardom, to the point that Bettman has to offer his comments to address the concerns of the fans. Some backlash, as expected, comes from those who see the term “monster” here as being more insulting to those who actually _were,_ though mostly everyone seems on board.

Henrik hasn’t received any calls from his agent yet, not that he’s technically allowed to, so he follows the news as best he can from what hockey news outlets are covering the lockout. He heard that Joel was back to playing with Frölunda, and that, for the most part, things seem to be looking up. He’s happy for his brother, of course, but it makes the house feel emptier.

Gabriella, too, went to spend some time in her own house; smaller, suited to just her needs. (Joel and Hank speculate that she has someone hidden away up there, but they won’t accuse her of anything. Not yet, at least.)

That, and the near constant ache in his chest from the half-formed bond make him a little bit crankier than was perhaps warranted.

Marc understands, though. Shifters are meant to be outside, or in large groups. Two beings in a too big house in Swedish mountains fill neither of those needs. He spends more and more time outside of the house, returning each time exhausted. He always walks in as a human - completely naked, much to Henrik’s chagrin - but he varies his forms. Sometimes he’ll stay small or domestic, such as a maine coon or a medium sized bird of prey. Other times, he’ll approach the back deck as something significantly more wild, like a wolf or a moose, regardless of how out of place those animals seem.

On one notable afternoon, Hank comes back as Marc does. He only realizes after the fact that it is Marc. In the moment, he knows only two things; 1) his territory has been infringed upon and 2) he’s going to rectify that fact. His fangs drop in response to his aggression, and he enters the house silently.

The creature stands in the kitchen with it’s back towards him, a black silhouette with white markings, almost like bones, seeming to float on the surface of the shadow. One set of the being’s arms are doing something on the island in front of it, while the lower set rests its hands on its hips. Its tail, red and spiny, flicks around in almost absent minded thought. The goat ears mirror the relaxed twitches, and its horns are short, meaning it’s still young.

It doesn’t seem to be uneased by the presence of select religious iconography scattered around the house. Instead, it seems almost...at ease. Like it belongs here.

Hank approaches silently, old hunting instincts resurfacing. But then the demon turns around, and speaks in a voice that seems to come from the back of Hank’s mind and the demon’s mouth itself.

“Hey, babe, what do you think about - _woah_.”

Hank can only guess what he looks like, but he’s more shocked at the fact that standing in front of him is _Marc._ He stands out of his hunting crouch, but has to work consciously to force his fangs back into his mouth.

“I…” A half second passes, filled with a brief blinding light, before Marc’s back in his human form standing bare in the kitchen. “Shit, sorry. I, uh...forgot?”

“You...forgot.”

“I forgot to change back, yeah. Just, kinda get used to being one, after a minute,” Marc mumbles, looking contrite.

Hank stands still for a moment, allowing himself time to process. Marc is a level five, meaning he can turn into other demons and monsters if he so wishes. He knows this, he felt Marc’s fangs against his own. It’s one thing to abstractly know something, and another to face it altogether.

Hank sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “No, it’s fine, it just. Took me by surprise.”

Marc doesn’t seem willing to give himself a break, but he nods. “If...if you’re sure it’s okay. I can just be human when I walk in the-”

“Yeah why don’t…”

“Uh.”

“Why don’t we do that instead, I can leave a basket of clothes for you at the door, if you want…?”

Marc slowly nods again, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “Uh…”

“You just-”

“Scared you?”

“...a little bit, yeah,” Hank admits. “Not because of the demon thing, just because I thought a stranger was in my house. I didn’t realize that level fives could change their scent, too.”

Marc shrugs. “I thought you already knew one, but, yeah. We can completely blend in, if we need to.”

Now it’s Hank’s turn to nod, and for a moment, they just stand there in silence. Then Marc excuses himself to go put some clothes on, and as he darts upstairs, Hank has to wonder if he’s royally gone and shot himself in the foot. But then, after Marc comes down and ruffles his hair as he passes by, he allows himself to relax into the touch. Everything goes back to normal, which is to say, Marc remains moody, but still affectionate with Hank himself.

Henrik isn’t sure how much of Marc’s moods are because of the news and how much of it is residual energy from him. When he tries to apologize, Marc cuts him off with a weak willed glare.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he chastises, standing in the doorway of their home. His face and chest are a bright red from the bitter autumn winds outside. “It’s not your fault America sucks.”

Hank runs his tongue over his fangs in mute response. He watches as Marc grabs a flannel shirt off the coat rack by the front door, shrugging into that and a pair of dry boxers from the basket resting near the fireplace. He stares at the space Marc vacates in favor of going to the kitchen.

Soon after, the strong scent of coffee filters through the warm air of the house. Hank has to laugh a little, shaking his head and gets up from the couch.

Marc rifles through the cabinets, his mug of coffee left settled on the island. His hair, a tangled mess courtesy of his outdoor adventures, is longer than Hank has ever seen it. He smells content, looks warm and safe, and Hank feels a piece of his tension break off. The hockey world might be going to shit, but at least he has his own personal world falling more into place.

Marc makes a triumphant noise as he pulls a box of pancake mix down from one of the cabinets. The little shimmy he does while reaching into the fridge for some eggs draws a laugh from the goaltender.

* * *

October fourth brings the news that 82 games have been cancelled, spanning the first two weeks of the season.

Hank’s almost tempted to risk the public image issues of trying to get on a team in the SHL. He’s missed too much hockey, and though he was technically able to play in the AHL affiliate of the Rangers, his non-human status made him a liability for the team. He doesn’t want to bench warm, either, so. His options are limited.

He’s out in town that afternoon, walking around to get out of the house for a bit. Marc had left earlier that morning, leaving a jacket of his and a note on top of it, saying he’d be home around dinner time.

The meaning of the jacket was implicit.

Hank rubs his fingers along the lining of the pockets, humming as he approaches an Apple store. Marc still needed a phone – his other one was beyond repair, and Apple didn’t do anything for water damage, which a swim across the Atlantic most certainly qualified as. He ends up choosing the next gen up from what Marc had previously, but kept the same color and data storage size as the first model. Minimum change, even though he wanted to splurge on him.

When he walks out, bag around his wrist, there’s a red maine coon curled up on the sidewalk, enjoying the autumn sun. Upon seeing him, the cat rolls onto his back, meowing loudly and stretching out.

A combination of a helpful wind and the near flirtatious nature of the cat clue Hank in to what’s happening here. He smiles warmly at the display and comes over, squatting beside the cat. Gently petting the exposed, fluffy stomach, he murmurs, “So this is where you’ve gone off to.”

Marc just blinks up at him, letting out a trilling meow.

“Have you been following me all day? Or just doing your own thing?”

The cat rolls to his feet, shaking himself off and rubbing his cheek on Hank’s knee, still purring loudly. When he nudges his face against the sleeves of the jacket, he looks up at Hank with what could only be described as pure affection.

Hank reaches down and scoops the cat up in his arms, grunting as he stands. “You just had to be the biggest cat here, didn’t you?” he mutters, adjusting his grip.

Marc nuzzles against Hank’s arm, clearly pleased with himself.

He carries Marc back down the street, absentmindedly petting him as he walks. They make their way to the car, and here Hank pauses. “Can I trust you to _absolutely_ _not_ put claw holes in the seats?”

Marc stares at him, tail flicking in an unimpressed manner.

“Hey my driving is not _that_ bad,” Hank mutters, but Marc begins struggling to get out of his arms. He drops Marc to the ground, and the cat quickly darts under the car. What hops out instead is a little songbird, which chirps up at Hank before flitting away, back in the direction of home.

_Point made,_ Hank thinks.

* * *

When Hank enters the house, he sees Marc lounging on the couch. “I get you a new phone, and you repay me by literally flying away.”

“The phone is well worth it, babe, but the drive might not have been. You asked for no claw marks, and I wasn’t about to tempt fate,” Marc responds, dropping a hand over the back of the couch. Henrik approaches the couch, taking Marc’s hand in his own and dropping the phone onto Marc’s stomach. “Here you are then, you pernicious feline.”

“Oooo, big words,” Marc teases, but lifts his hand to kiss Hank’s knuckles anyway.

“Love you too,” Hank replies, and leans down to kiss Marc’s forehead.

* * *

Amongst the the various other problems clouding their time off, Hank finds himself also wondering about what would come of the half formed bond existing between he and Marc. He can’t find all that much material on interspecies bonds, and what he does find, says the same thing over and over again.

No one knows anything.

Sighing, he closes his laptop, not wanting to stress himself out about this. As far as he knew, negotiations simply are at a standstill in America, which could mean one of two things: the season will pass by before the deadline, resulting in a cancellation, _or_ one side will capitulate to the other’s demands and the season will resume before long. If he was being honest with himself, he knew which one was more likely.

He spins around in his desk chair, hauling himself to stand. The office space is kind of a glorified library, with rarer books in glass cases lining the walls. It’s a bit of a pretentious collection, dating back to when they were children, several centuries ago. Tomes from the 1700’s and onwards look out at him, their glass not portraying his reflection as he leaves.

He rubs his chest as he walks down the hallway, trying to soothe the ache inside. It’s been two weeks since he and Marc had almost…well, “consummated their bond” was an outdated term for it, but was the right one. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to – oh, how he wants to.

They’ve been limited in their sexual experiences together. They spent offseasons away from each other, spending time with their own respective families. The season, between injuries and the grueling schedule, left them with just enough time for handjobs and blowjobs. They haven’t had the time to go further.

And now, with a house to themselves and a possibly cancelled season staring them in the face, the reasons to keep pushing it off were getting thinner and thinner. So was Hank’s restraint, as well. Each feeding drained his patience from him faster than anything else.

But bonding was for life, there are no do-overs. He told Marc that he wanted to bond with him, and that was true. But the risk of doing so at the expense of ruining their careers, something Marc had worked all his life for, isn’t something he can bring himself to do. He won’t be the one to potentially ruin Marc’s chance at greatness.

Hockey is ephemeral. Henrik isn’t going anywhere any time soon, he can wait.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He makes his way to the foot of the stairs, when he hears a small groan. He freezes, listening for any more noise. Shifting sheets, and another breathless groan.

And then the smell hits him.

That sweetness, made even sweeter by the heady twist of lust thickening the scent. He cautiously makes his way up the stairs, approaching his own room. The door is open - that should be his first clue.

Inside, Marc lays face down on their bed, knees bent with a pillow jammed under his hips. He has two fingers working in and out of him, the soft, slick sounds of the lube intermingling with his soft moans. He has his face pressed against one of Hank’s pillows, the smell still concentrated there from that morning.

Hank’s never gotten hard that fast in his life.

He steps into the room, and Marc turns to look at him, cheeks bright red. “Hank…” he murmurs, reaching out with the hand that had previously been gripping onto the sheets at his side. “Please…”

He goes over to Marc’s side, stripping his shirt as he goes. Marc rolls onto his back, eyes darkening as he waits for Hank’s attention.  

Hank leans down to kiss him, taking his wrists and pushing them above Marc’s head. The shapeshifter moans into the kiss, open and yielding beneath Hank. He tries to move his arms, but Hank keeps him pinned.

Marc shivers as Hank pulls back from kissing him, his pulse racing. Hank feels the steady beating beneath his lips as he presses kisses down Marc’s neck. He pays extra attention to the faded bite mark from the previous night, licking softly at the bruising.

Marc’s hips jerk up beneath him, and he chuckles a bit. “Okay, okay.”

He reaches around for the bottle of lube, finding it down in the sheets under Marc’s hips. He pushes on Marc’s wrists once again with purpose, before letting go; he’s meant to keep his hands to himself.

Spreading the lube on his fingers, he reaches down, circling Marc’s entrance.

“Hank, _fuck,_ stop teasing,” Marc whimpers, and Henrik gives in, sliding in one, then two fingers. He watches as Marc’s hips buck slightly, his hands clenching above his head. He scissors his fingers, nearly purring at the way Marc falls apart beneath him.

“Ready for a third?”

“Yes, fuck, yes Hank!” How can he say no to that?

He adds the third finger, slowly, noting that only now does Marc’s body offer resistance. He reaches in deep, gently massaging along Marc’s walls, drawing small mewls from the shapeshifter. Experimentally, he crooks his fingers, earning a gasp and stuttering jerk from Marc’s whole body. Marc doesn’t let his hands move from their location over his head, though, and Hank rewards him for that.

Slowly, deliberately, he does it again, and that draws a long, keening moan from Marc. He can tell that Marc’s close, but he doesn’t want him to get off just yet, so he pulls his fingers back to teasing Marc shallowly. Marc’s thighs tremble a bit on either side of Hank’s waist, making the vampire purr with pride.

He slides his hand down Marc’s chest and abs, feeling the tight muscles there contracting as Marc struggles to stay still, before he reaches his flushed length. Precum drips onto his abs fluently, and Hank draws a line through the small salty puddle. Collecting it up on his fingertip, he licks it, curious if it tastes anything like its owner.

Of course it does: a saltier version of Marc.

He leans down, flicking his tongue around the head. That gets Marc started all over again.

He works his way down Marc’s cock, extra careful not to brush his fangs against the sensitive flesh. He swallows around what he has in his mouth, taking pride in the choked sounding moans escaping his lover.

“Hank…fuck, Hank, I’m gonna…”

Hank doubles his efforts, wanting to push Marc over the edge. He crooks his fingers right against that spot he’d been teasing at before, and then it’s over. When Marc comes, Hank swallows it down, fingers still massaging the spot to wring out every last bit of pleasure.

He pulls off and removes his fingers, licking his lips and looking down at Marc. He’s flushed all over, hands still above his head, and his lower lip looks bright red, as if he’d been biting it the whole time. And those eyes…full of lust and love, a mix Hank had seen quite frequently.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

“How was that, älskling,” he murmurs, wiping his fingers on the sheets as he comes up to Marc’s level. He gently kisses him, licking into his mouth and letting Marc taste himself.

“Good…so good,” Marc mumbles. “But…what about you?”

Hank pauses, before shaking his head. “I’m good.”

Marc’s brow furrows, his lower lip almost sticking out in a childish pout. “What do you mean, you’re good? Did you not…?”

He trails off, and it takes Hank a second before he realizes what this might look like to Marc. “What, no, no of course not, älskling. Of course I enjoyed it. I just don’t want to risk bonding.”

Marc blinks, taking in the new information. “So…all this time, the reason we haven’t slept together yet, is because you didn’t want to risk bonding? Not because of _anything_ else?”

At Hank’s nod, Marc continues definitively, “Well that’s fucking stupid.”

“What do you me-”

“Henrik Lundqvist. When I said I loved you, I meant it. I meant it then, and I mean it now. And if bonding is what it takes to get you to fuck me, then it’s damn well worth it.”

Hank balks at the tone, but knows that Marc speaks the truth. He can feel it, even in the half started bond still trying valiantly to drive them together. All of his reservations were just rooted in fear of the unknown. There’s no way to know what happens next, if they were to do this. There’s no telling how it would affect their hockey, their relationship with each other, what it would mean for the politics of monsters and demons who _are_ out and about in public.

“Unless you don’t actually love me. Then I can see your hesitation,” Marc mutters, not even trying to hide his hurt.

“Of course I love you, Marc.”

“Then prove it. Or tell me _why_ you’re so against bonding, because I don’t see it! If it’s a way of connecting with someone that you love, and is something that is already happening…why waste the chance?” He finishes with a whisper, reaching up and splaying his hand over Hank’s chest.

Hank tries to think about this from Marc’s perspective. The position of someone who hasn’t been around for nearly as long as Hank, someone who grew up with the human obsession of love and romance being forced down his throat from a young age. He thinks about how Marc, the second eldest, probably was always measured up against Eric or Jordan, if not in hockey, then in what it takes to be a “man’s man.” Of course, he’d already challenged that notion by clearly being more than interested in men. To have someone who could, in theory, bind themselves to him - emotionally, mentally, even spiritually, in a sense - and refused to do so would hurt like hell. After everything that he’s risked, to have it seemingly thrown in his face…

Guilt smacks him in the face like a wall of cold rain. He leans forward against Marc’s hand, swallowing dryly. “You’re right, älskling,” he whispers, steeling himself. He looks up into those hurting eyes and nods. “I do love you, and want you. I’m sorry I ever let you think otherwise. I was being selfish, and...I’m sorry. I’d be more than happy to bond with you, whenever you wanted.”

Marc narrows his eyes at him, and he supposes he deserves that. “What if I said right now?” Marc challenges, looking so serious given that he’s the one completely naked.

Hank nods, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. “Then right now it is.”

Marc smiles, breaking the tension with palpable relief, and the ache in Hank’s chest flares even brighter. He leans down to take Marc’s lips with his own, but doesn’t expect to be flipped over onto his back.

“I’m leading this time,” the shapeshifter insists, and makes his way down Hank’s body, kissing and biting and sucking every inch of skin.

Hank moans at the bites, threading his fingers into Marc’s hair. Marc’s possessive streak rears its head as he rakes his nails down Hank’s side, bringing his hands to his hips and deftly undoing his pants. It doesn’t take long before he’s just as naked as Marc, who…isn’t doing anything.

When Hank lifts his head, he sees Marc looking up at him, lips just over his tip. His mouth suddenly feels dry and he swallows, feeling very much small and beneath Marc in all kinds of ways.

The shapeshifter leans down and takes Hank into his mouth. The tight, wet heat makes Hank buck his hips up, and Marc just takes it. If it were another time, Hank might want to see just how much Marc could take, but for now, he needs something more. Marc seems determined to keep him on edge, though. He takes him all the way to the edge, and at that point, Hank starts tugging on his hair.

Marc pulls off, thankfully, and strokes Hank’s length with a loose grip. “Ready?”

“Ja, älskling, please…” He bites his lower lip, his fangs glinting in the light. Marc straddles him and reaches back to line them up, before sinking down.

The previously dull ache flares up with a renewed purpose, making Hank gasp. He brings his hands down to Marc’s hips to steady him. It’s not that he hasn’t ever had sex before, but this is the first time that he’s had sex with _Marc._ That alone is enough to make it different.

He struggles to keep his hips flat on the bed, Marc’s weight helping to keep him still. “Okay…?” he whispers. He doesn’t want to hurt Marc, but he also needs to _move._

Marc nods, reaching one hand down to brace himself on Hank’s chest. He circles his hips, gasping when he gets just the right angle. Slowly, he raises himself up a bit before settling back down, experimenting with a rhythm.

When he finds it, Hank whimpers, knowing that he’s just along for the ride. It feels almost poetic, in a way, to be able to give back to Marc like this. To be used for his gratification, even if it feels good for the both of them. That revelation, that this connection is finally two sided, makes Hank groan, a feeling of rightness settling over him.

And then things get fuzzy.

The thick, sweet smell of Marc, already filling his senses, beckons to him with a new ferocity. His throat feels dry and bare, and he _needs_ to drink from him, despite having fed only the day prior. This is a different kind of hunger.

He pulls Marc down, disrupting the rhythm but taking over with his own thrusts, and noses along Marc’s neck. Marc tightens around him in response, whimpering, “Yes, yes, yes…” against Hank’s shoulder.

He bites in, and the sweetness of his blood and the tight, wet heat around him push him over the edge. He feels something wet and warm spilling between them, hears Marc moaning, and then everything goes white.

* * *

When he comes to, he notices several things at once. He’s cleaned up, but still naked. The sheets are still gross, but he’s not in any of the gross patches. There’s fingers running through his hair, and they are not his own. And the ache that has been haunting his chest, assuaged only by constant contact with Marc, is gone. Replacing it, is a warm, contented feeling that feels simultaneously alien and domestic.

Hank opens his eyes, and looks up to see Marc gently smiling down at him. The sight is a welcome one, even though he’s currently upside down. He wants to reach up, to cup Marc’s cheek and feel him lean into the touch like he knows he will, but his arms feel too heavy to move just yet. Still, the question sits on his tongue, wanting to be asked. _Are you okay?_

Marc freezes for a minute, before he slowly nods, his smile only faltering a moment before growing twice as bright.

Hank feels a resounding, positive affirmation in his chest, and realizes that he’s feeling it from Marc – that his question about Marc’s current status must have somehow transferred over the bond, and Marc _felt_ that.

His surprise flows across the bond in a bubble of pinks, followed by the lazy yellow glow of happiness. He feels Marc echo the sentiment, his own emotions fed back to him from that part in his chest that was dedicated entirely to Marc.

Not that his heart had ever _not_ been dedicated entirely to Marc.

Marc leans down and presses a soft kiss to his lips, and Hank gently responds in kind. “Why did we wait so long to do this?” he murmurs, feeling more alert now.

“Don’t ask me, meatball. You were the one holding back,” Marc teases. His end of the bond ebbs and flows like waves, constantly changing shapes and colors. Hank supposes that that’s only fitting, given Marc’s true nature.

Right now, it’s a contented deep green, swirling lazily in circles. If Hank closes his eyes, he thinks, he could fully visualize it. For now, it feels like daydreaming with his eyes open, like a memory that he can only bring to the forefront of his mind when prompted by something else. It’s a distraction, but a nice one. A welcome one.

For once, he doesn’t feel so alone.

He slowly moves to upright himself, arms shaking a bit as he hauls himself up. “I’ll never live that down, will I?”

“You’ll outlive everything, Hank. Is that not how immortality works?”

The gentle teasing does touch over a bit of a sore spot for Hank, and he knows that Marc knows this, but as soon as the words are out of Marc’s mouth, Hank feels a small push of apology settling in his chest. Marc leans in, gently kissing Hank’s temple.

“It’s a joke, babe. But I won’t make it again if it makes you panic like that,” he murmurs, running a gentle hand down Hank’s back.

“Tack, älskling,” Hank whispers, and leans in close. Everything is tinged with more of Marc’s perception than before, and that will take some getting used to. One can only imagine how it will affect their game.

Perhaps, before they go back, they can experiment with that, to see if what affects one affects the other.

But for now, Hank’s more than okay to settle in their contentedness of the moment, and to just _be_ with each other. He knows, without asking, that Marc feels the same.

* * *

Getting used to sharing emotions with someone else is  a new challenge to overcome in the upcoming days. At first, they stay within the house, wanting to just see how much could be understood or communicated without too much outside interference.

So far, they couldn’t read each other’s minds, which was both a let down and also a boon. But they soon find that emotions truly are too complex for language, and the bond allows for a greater understanding. Physical contact strengthened their connection, but when Marc did some digging, he told Hank that it was like that for most new bonds in general. After about a week, they should have equal strength in the bond when not touching each other as when touching each other.

Another unexpected feature is the way Marc becomes Hank’s true north. Even before the bond, Hank could reliably depend on his sense of smell and Marc’s unique scent to tell him where the defenseman was, but this felt a lot more direct. When Marc entered a room, Hank couldn’t  help but turn towards him, to assess and check on his mate. It’s a drawback, but one to be handled at another time.

They also make up for lost time – nearly two years’ worth, in fact – by spending whatever spare moments they have in bed with each other. Sex while being privy to the other person’s emotions was a new experience entirely. Marc’s emotions almost overpower Hank’s own, each one wild and demanding, before settling once they got the attention he desired.

(Of course, the few times Marc got too bossy in bed and Hank put him back in his place, they both could feel the sheer arousal from the display of dominance. Needless to say, they explored along that path quite frequently.)

That was how they passed the few days between their bonding and the news that the Alberta Labor Relations Board ruled against the NHLPA and said that the lockout was, in fact, legal in Alberta. Not that that directly affected the Rangers – the lawsuit was more so to try and set a precedent, using the Oilers and Flames to try to garner sympathy and let them continue to use the team facilities – but it still felt like a step backwards.

“At this rate, they should just cancel the season,” Marc mutters, his head pillowed against Hank’s stomach as he lays stretched out on the couch.

“If they do that, then that doesn’t actually put them in a position to make a new CBA. They’ll just drag it out until they absolutely have to, and we could wind up in this position again for next season. It’s better they sort it out now,” Hank agrees, running a hand through Marc’s hair. He can feel Marc’s disappointment and frustration, and tries to send Marc a bit of his own calmness.

Marc sighs, rubbing his cheek against Hank’s shirt. “It’s just stupid. They’re going to drag this out anyway, and for what? There’s literally no benefit to this. They don’t want to treat players like people, and they want to further demonize us, just because we’re not people to begin with. Like, you give your blood, sweat, and tears into an organization, and for what?”

Hank hums, not quite knowing what to say to that. It certainly feels that way, that there’s no point to sacrificing so much for an organization that doesn’t seem to want to do much in return. But there has to be some positivity in this somewhere.

“Maybe it’s for the best, hmm? We might have a season, we might not. At least when this is over, we’ll know how they feel about us. The owners and the players have such a disconnect, which is unfortunate, but it’s reality. And the owners have access to the registry of all of us non-humans, so it’s not like we’re a secret to them either. But the public eye is on them now.”

“What good does that afford us?”

“It means if they make a shitty deal, there will be more than just irate players threatening to stay in the KHL and other European leagues,” Hank replies. “I may not fully get the whole social media aspect of things, but I do know that when things are trending, people have to answer for it. Some are still bringing up the ‘hashtag, are we the monsters now’ thing from last month.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Okay...but fans can only go so far.”

“You’re forgetting something else, älskling. What else do fans have that we need?”

“…attention?”

“Their money. All it takes is a plummet in sales, be it tickets or jerseys or merch, and they’ll reconsider. There’s already been complaints from businesses around the rinks, losing money and all that.”

Marc snorts, rubbing his thumb against Hank’s thigh. “Capitalism, huh?”

“Indeed, älskling. Indeed.”

* * *

“Did you know that they got some Republican PR person to survey focus groups on their feelings about the lockout?” Hank asks, thumbing through a magazine.

“No…I didn’t,” Marc pants back, pushing himself upright before steadily lowering himself again.

“The Americans are reelecting their president next month, aren’t they?” Hank continues, skimming the article.

“Unless…Clinton wins.” Marc’s struggling a bit, but stays steady as he pushes himself up. He locks his elbows, trying to catch his breath. Hank feels that, and looks down, running his hand through Marc’s sweaty hair.

“Hmmm. We’ll have to see about that. Keep going, älskling, you’re almost done.”

“Why do I have to do pushups with you on my back again?” Marc grunts back, his end of the bond swirling in annoyance.

“Because it looks hot.”

Presented with such logic, Marc begrudgingly continues with his exercise. Hank continues reading his magazine, still perched on Marc’s back.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012 : Owners offer 50/50 revenue split, hope for 82-game season** Oct 16, 2012

Gary Bettman announced the plan after talks at the NHLPA’s headquarters in Toronto, according to the Canadian Press and others, saying that it’s the league’s last-ditch effort to save an 82-game NHL season. Bettman said that if the season begins no later than Nov. 2, the 82-game schedule could still be played.

It’s not exactly a slam dunk offer, even if it may seem that way at face value. The current revenue split is 57 percent in favor of the players, and with an immediate decrease to a 50/50 split, players will have to lose money somehow, whether it’s immediate or it’s phased in over time or it’s taken out of future league growth. Reports indicate that current contracts will be protected under the new proposal, and that the existing definition of HRR is preserved. That’s all good news, but it’s yet to be seen how escrow will be impacted under the new proposal.

Donald Fehr didn’t give much detail on the offer from the NHLPA’s perspective, saying that they still need to wade through the details before stating publicly their feelings on the proposal.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Optimism fades as Bettman shuts down NHLPA proposals** Oct 18, 2012

NHL commissioner Gary Bettman stepped to the podium, and said he was “totally disappointed” with the NHLPA’s “step backward” in CBA talks. Bettman said that all three of the proposals sent the league’s way Thursday were variations of the union’s initial offer back in the summer.

“We’re nowhere close to what we have proposed,” Bettman said. “I don’t know what the next step is. I’m very discouraged.”

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: NHL Cancels Regular Season Games Through November 1, 2012** Oct 19, 2012

* * *

This is the first time he’s had goalie pads on in too damn long. Granted, they aren’t his game pads, those were left behind in New York. They aren’t even his practice pads for the Rangers. But he’d called in a few favors from Joel and wound up with his Swedish national team gear and a practice set of pads and skates for Marc. (No helmet though; the Staal had instead taken the baseball cap for his headgear of choice in their faux practice.)

The blue and yellow isn’t what he pictured himself wearing again so soon, but he loves it. It settles that part of him that had rebelled against knowing that he probably wouldn’t be able to play again any time soon. Having almost a whole month added to the offseason wasn’t helping matters in the slightest.

But now he’s here in goal, doing the stretches that he has memorized by now, watching Marc lazily skate around. He’d been doing drills earlier, had asked Hank to time a few of them, but it was slow going. Neither of them were back to playing shape, persay, but they had a distinct physical advantage that human players lacked. That part was always helpful.

Marc skates over to him, coming to a stop on his blocker side. The snow sprays up, dusting over Hank’s right pad. “Want me to put some shots on you?” he asks, knowing that it would help both of them.

Hank climbs back up to his skates, shaking himself off a bit. “That would be great, yeah. Wanna just do around the world, then maybe shootout stuff?”

“I never do shootout stuff though.”

“Yes, but _I_ do. Besides, it gives you a chance to show off a bit, huh?” he teases, tapping Marc’s shin with his stick. “Now get to it, I’m ready.”

“Bossy bossy,” Marc mutters, but skates over to where the cones were still laid out from his last drill. He sets them about equidistant apart in a semicircle reaching back from the blue line to the edges of the net, and one behind. The bucket of pucks came next, Marc dumping out a pile at each cone, and then putting the bucket on the bench.

And then, they’re practicing, and it feels so good. Hank lets in a few more than he would like, but that is to be expected after so long without practice. His own exhaustion is compounded by Marc’s, but the overwhelming feeling of happiness, of _belonging,_ overshadows them both.

Once Hank gets in the groove, he finds that knowing where Marc is actually helps him predict where he’s going to go, especially when Marc’s attempting shootout style goals. He reads him like a book, and on the sixth attempt at a goal, Marc circles back around and hits his stick on the ice. “I don’t think I’m gonna get any past you, Henke. I feel like you’re cheating,” he calls, lazily skating in circles now.

Hank stands from where he’d crouched to make the last stop, flipping the puck over in his glove. “Oh please, it’s not that bad. You should be happy for me, means I still have it.” He props his mask up, reaching back to take a drink from his water bottle.

Marc comes to a stop in front of him, his end of the bond filling with a pastel kind of amusement, and slight awe. His hat is backwards, a tuft of red hair sticking out in the front window. “Babe, no one would ever doubt that you have it. You never lose it, even with months off.”

Hank’s cheeks flush, barely visible under the redness from both the cold and exertion. “Tack, älskling. That means a lot, coming from you,” he replies. “I think I’m good for today, if you want to call it.”

Hank feels the _yes_ before Marc nods, and takes his helmet off, running his fingers through his hair. “Then let’s get to it.”

He moves to skate past Marc, but the defenseman grabs him, keeping him in place as he leans down to kiss him, and _oh._ Yeah, they can do this too.

* * *

Hank’s reading the newspaper, thumbing through the stories of economic implications of cancelling the season, the new terms of non-humans playing, and all sorts of smaller, lighter stories designed to take his mind off the bigger problems. The kitchen smells like cinnamon sugar, Marc standing at the stove top and flipping the newest four additions to his rapidly growing stack of French toast. Even though Henrik himself doesn’t need to feed just yet, Marc’s residual hunger makes his fangs click down anyway. He busies himself with tracing his tongue over them, listening to the sizzle of breakfast food and Marc’s humming.

Then his phone rings.

He looks up with a frown, unsure as to who could be calling. A glance at Marc shows there’s equal curiosity, and a bit of concern.

Especially when the name on the phone reads Glen Sather.

“Why the hell is he calling me?”

“Who?”

“Our GM.”

Marc pauses, a piece of French toast sitting on his spatula. “…He shouldn’t be able to do that.”

“I’m answering it.”

“What, why?”

“Because if I don’t answer, what’s to say he won’t call you next? Marc, he’s in New York, it’s three in the morning for them there. He has to want something.” He picks up the phone without another word to Marc, and before he can get another word out, Glen’s talking.

“Hey, Hank. I don’t have much time to talk, but I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing.” He sounds tired, drained, and a bit like he’s following a script.

“I know it’s early for you, Mr. Sather, and I appreciate the call. Can I ask what this is about, though?” he presses.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the various deals going around on the negotiations table. I want to see if you have any questions that you think I could answer for you, or concerns I could clarify.”

Hank looks up at Marc, brows up in surprise. Marc motions for him to keep going, and Hank rolls his eyes. _You’re no help,_ he mouths to the defenseman.

“Only as far as those safety regulations go, Mr. Sather. I’m not sure there’s much else that can be done for the other points of contention, but I do want to ask if those are going to be looked over again.”

“In what way do you mean?”

“In the way that, as the league has proposed these changes, players such as myself now have to face more than usual strict guidelines that disproportionately affect only us.”

The line goes quiet, and Hank continues. “I know that you’re in a tough position here, but assuming the worst of backbone players both on your team, and in the league as a whole, is a horrible strategy and will only further alienate these two groups. If you want to salvage this season, I highly suggest you reconsider the language used when discussing non-human players.”

Glen sighs, and there’s the sound of something scratching in the background. Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. First a call that shouldn’t be happening, and now, who knows what is going to happen as far as quotes go.

He can see in his periphery Marc leaning on the counter with one hand, the other one, still holding the spatula, on his hip. The sight is comical, but Hank stifles his laugh when he hears Glen come back on the line.

“Do you have any other concerns that I could address? Monetary, perhaps?”

“You and I both know, Mr. Sather, that I’m not in a position where money is my worry. For the sake of the human players, though, I suggest you start by viewing them as people, rather than as mere props. While players might not have as much organization without the league’s overarching structure, the overarching structure would have no purpose without the players. This is no chicken and egg riddle, Mr. Sather. Recall that, the next time you sit down with the players association to make a bargain.”

“…Thank you for your time, and we’ll –”

“Speaking of which, do they even know you made this call? During labor shortages, you shouldn’t be able to get ahold of us.”

“…Good day, Mr. Lundqvist.”

“Good day, Mr. Sather.” He hangs up the phone, and puts his head in his hands.

“So,” Marc begins, from where he’d put on four new pieces of toast. “Is it fair to say that went well?”

“I dunno,” Hank replies, not moving his head from his hands. “But I’d start thinking about what you’d like to say to him, if your phone rings next.”

“…Think this is going to come back and bite us?” The twist of worry Hank feels over the bond makes him lift his head. Marc’s resolutely not looking at him, focused instead on the cooking food.

“The phone call or something else?” he asks as he stands, making his way up behind Marc.

“The phone call, yeah. And the fact that when he goes to call me, thinking that I’m in Thunder Bay, he’s going to think I’m an hour behind and not _six hours ahead,_ ” he replies, leaning back into Hank’s touch a bit.

“So you’re worried about him finding out that you’re here?” Hank asks, sliding his arms around Marc’s waist.

“Little bit, yeah.”

“What, like we’re not friends and you can’t come hang out with me? Players aren’t kept from seeing each other during the break, you know that.” He goes up on his toes a bit, hooking his chin on Marc’s shoulder.

Marc sighs, but doesn’t say anything further, instead just pressing a kiss to Hank’s temple.

* * *

Marc’s phone does ring, about two hours later. They only know that once they check the call log, though.

They were both otherwise occupied.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: League irks union by allowing owners to speak with players** Oct 23, 2012

NHL deputy commissioner Bill Daly confirmed on Tuesday that the league allowed its owners and general managers to answer questions directly from their players regarding the NHL’s most recent collective bargaining proposal that was presented to the union last week.

Normally, the owners and general managers are not permitted to be in contact with players during a labor stoppage but the league granted a 48-hour grace period last week for discussions on CBA topics. The league even supplied its constituency with a memo setting strict guidelines for the talks, which included a sample question-and-answer portion that suggested ways for executives to answer players’ questions.

It is not yet clear if the memo included how to handle questions regarding the controversial stance taken by NHL commissioner Gary Bettman a few weeks ago. Journalists were told not to press that particular issue, and very little has come out of the press room as of now.

But one thing is clear; the fans have not yet forgotten.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Gary Bettman calls 82-game season ‘unlikely’** Oct 24, 2012

“The [NHL Players’ Association] has chosen not to engage on our proposal or make a proposal of their own. Unfortunately, it looks like an 82-game season is not going to be a reality.” – NHL commissioner, Gary Bettman

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: League officially cancels games through Nov. 30** Oct 26, 2012

“The National Hockey League deeply regrets having to take this action. By presenting a proposal to the NHLPA that contemplated a fair division of revenues and was responsive to Player concerns regarding the value of their contracts, we had hoped to be able to forge a long-term Collective Bargaining Agreement that would have preserved an 82-game Regular Season for our fans. Unfortunately, that did not occur.

We acknowledge and accept that there is joint responsibility in collective bargaining and, though we are profoundly disappointed that a new agreement has not been attained to this point, we remain committed to achieving an agreement that is fair for the Players and the Clubs – one that will be good for the game and our fans.” – NHL deputy commissioner, Bill Daly

* * *

Pumpkin spice coffee reminded him more of America than of Sweden, but it still made Hank a little bit homesick. The drink paired well with the crackling fire of the bookstore he was in, an old copy of _1984_ in his hands. George Orwell was good at painting pictures with his words, and while the idea of having an overly involved government seemed more and more like the direction America was headed into, Henrik found himself vividly imagining what it would be like to live in a world where doublespeak was the way to try to protect yourself.

Then again, he almost did. In a way, he did live in a heavily monitored world, although he knew that if he left the NHL for good, and actually _tried_ to stay out of the spotlight, he would fall out of mind for many of the humans that made his life so public.

This bookstore, though, sheltered him a bit from that. Everything was collected in peak condition from the time that it originally belonged, courtesy of a bibliophile timewalker named Julia. Under her watchful gaze, other monsters and demons could find a slice of companionship and civility hidden in the midst of downtown Åre.

She approaches up on his left hand side, her dark skin reflecting the light of the fire as she settles down on the high backed chair opposite him. “Enjoying what you’ve found?” she asks, her hazel eyes with pointed pupils flicking over the cover of the book.

“Of course, you know Orwell was a genius,” Hank replies, not looking up at her gaze.

She reaches one hand out, long black nails tracing along the knuckles of his hand. He allows her this curiosity, before shifting his hand away from her. “Is there something else you need?”

“I should be asking you. How is that ‘shifter of yours, anyhow?”

Hank never had mentioned Marc to her, but he had learned over the years that how Julia acquired her knowledge was not necessarily as important as what her knowledge was.

But right now, as he reaches through the bond – by now, just as strong over distance as it was when they were touching – he finds nothing but lazy contentedness from Marc’s end. “He’s fine, Julia. Thank you for asking.”

Julia tilts her head, long silver hair turning warm by the firelight. Her pointed ears, pierced through with varying pieces of silver jewelry, twitch slightly with the movement. “Are you sure about that?”

As she speaks, Hank feels the emotions on Marc’s end begin to change. First, the little soft red flare of surprise. But it quickly darkens to a thick, oily feeling of dread, and panic. Then, acceptance…and then more dread.

It’s all encompassing, and Henrik looks up at Julia, brows furrowed. “Did –”

“I can feel your bond, his magic is all over you. But you cannot see what will come to pass like I can. He needs you now. Go.” She plucks the book from his hand and takes his mug of coffee, and walks to the back room.

Hank’s gone before the door to the shop closes.

* * *

He definitely breaks some speeding limits getting to wherever it is he’s going, but it would hardly be the first time that the law has had something to say about his driving habits. The entire drive had been filled with more of the dread, interspersed with anger and frustration. Confusion, from both of them, but mostly from Hank, who at this point had determined that Marc was most definitely _not_ at home – the tugging in his chest got weaker when he tried to go home, and that wasn’t the desired response. He winds up arriving at some hiking trail in the mountains, with the only road continuing further being most definitely not suited for sports cars. He parks in the lot, and presses forward, rubbing one hand at his chest.

It takes about twenty minutes, twenty long minutes of not knowing if Marc was physically okay, before he catches ahold of his scent. The minute he smells him, the emotions freeze; Marc’s still angry, still hurting, but has stopped trying to let Hank feel them.

He follows his ears, praying that he won’t hear the thick sound of blood dripping onto foliage and snow. He listens through the rest of the heartbeats along the trails, before latching onto the familiar cadence of Marc’s heart. It’s fast and uneven, but Hank knows that it’s him. The tugging in his chest gets stronger the closer he gets, and before long, he finds him.

Marc’s sitting on a rock, completely bare, his phone clasped in his hand, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands. His shoulders shake with each breath, and Hank gently approaches, taking a seat beside Marc on the boulder.

Marc curls up into his side, throwing his arms around him and burying his face against Hank’s shoulder.

Hank’s just grateful that Marc isn’t physically hurt – he smells no blood, no signs of any danger – and he pulls him in close. He lets Marc attempt to steady himself, a few loose sobs escaping. They stay like that until the sun starts to go down, and then Hank gently urges Marc up.

“Älskling, we have to get moving. It’s going to get dark soon.”

Marc goes with him, body pliant but mind unwilling. “There aren’t much worse things out there in the dark than us, Henke,” he mumbles quietly.

Henrik doesn’t know what to say to that, and instead kisses him, putting one hand on his chest, the other threading into his hair. Before they separate, he shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around Marc’s shoulders. He carries one thought in his mind and sends the growing feelings to Marc, repeating it over and over and over on their way back to the car.

He doesn’t stop once they get there, doesn’t stop when they’ve arrived back at their house. He doesn’t stop when he pulls Marc into his arms, when he tries to bring him out of his head and back to their home, when he guides him into the shower and hopes that the warmth will get to him in ways even this bond cannot. He doesn’t stop until they fall into bed, freshly washed, and lets Marc curl up in his arms once more. How such a big man can be made to feel so small, Hank will never understand.

He whispers them one last time before they both fall asleep, their arms tight around each other.

“I love you, älskling. Jag älskar dig, sweetheart.”

* * *

The next morning, Hank wakes up before Marc. They’re still tangled together, neither having moved during the night. The Swede stretches out as much as he’s able to, joints cracking with the release of air. He drops an arm back over Marc’s shoulders, closing his eyes but remaining awake.

In the bond, everything feels a little bit washed out and grey. Tender, like watercolors staining a canvas. Hank doesn’t probe further. The least he can do is give Marc his bit of privacy when he’s not awake to defend himself.

A few minutes later, during which Hank amuses himself by counting Marc’s freckles, he senses Marc start to awaken. The first tendrils of consciousness drift through the bond, and then he’s awake and looking at Hank, eyes sleepily focusing on his face.

Hank brings a hand down to gently brush Marc’s nose, and the sleepy shapeshifter nearly goes cross eyed trying to follow the digit. Hank chuckles as Marc groans, squeezing his eyes shut again. “Come back out, älskling, it’s time to face the day,” he cajoles, running that same finger down Marc’s lips and chin, following the curve of his jaw to his neck.

“I don’t want to,” Marc mumbles, but twitches a bit when Hank’s finger brushes a sensitive spot.

“You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do,” the vampire acquiesces. “But it would be nice to see you at some point this morning.”

Marc lifts his head from where he’d tried to bury into the pillows. The entire left side of his hair is sticking straight up, crisscrossed red strands looking too fluffy not to touch in the morning light. Hank reaches up, and runs his fingers along the massive cowlick Marc’s currently sporting.

“Happy now?” Marc mumbles, but Hank knows he’s going to give in relatively soon. He always does.

Not even five seconds pass before Marc’s leaning into the touch, nuzzling closer like a cat. “There we go,” Hank coos, and Marc sleepily glares at him.

The faded grey of the bond remains, even as Marc starts to wake up. Hank can feel the exact moment he remembers whatever happened yesterday, and keeps running his hand through his hair. He keeps his own end of the bond reassuringly calm, not quite knowing where Marc’s going to take this.

But he keeps it down, the oily smudges of dread remaining faded in the new morning’s light. Hank wants so badly to question what happened, but he knows that pushing won’t make anything easier.

Marc must feel that through the bond, because he shifts closer, laying down with his head on Hank’s chest, just as he mumbles, “Jordan called yesterday.”

Now it’s Hank’s turn to freeze. The Staal family had maintained radio silence with Marc, even after he’d gotten his phone replaced. It had been over two months since their falling out, and now to call…that couldn’t be good news. “What did he say?”

“Just that Mom and Dad wanted me to get my ass back home. They’d apparently tried tracking me, but only got as far as the coast. And then time passed and the scent just got weaker. They have no real idea where I am and they say that they’re worried about me. Thought I was dead, or something.” Marc’s voice is emotionless, just tired, and the bond reflects that.

Hank runs a hand through the soft ginger hair, massaging gently. He feels Marc’s sigh of relaxation, and sends a little love his way. “And what did you tell him?”

“That I was fine, had enough food and had a place to stay. That I was taking care of myself.”

Henrik doesn’t know if he should ask about his own role in the conversation, or if he should just let Marc say as much as he wants to say. “That’s…good then.”

“I told him I was staying with you. Then he got angry again, asked me how I even knew how to find you, accused you of planning all of this. A whole lot of shit. I’d been off the phone with him for about 20 minutes by the time you found me.” Marc slides his hand down Hank’s side, and Hank hums at the touch. “I’m sorry for that, by the way.”

“Don’t apologize, love. It’s not your fault. I wouldn’t fault you if you did want to go home, try to smooth things over…but I know that right now it’s probably not the best time for that. But don’t feel like you’re trapped here, okay? As much as I love you being here, I don’t want you to think that you have no other option.” It hurts a little bit to give Marc so obvious an opening, but Marc only snuggles closer, squeezing the hand on Hank’s side down.

“No, not really. I like spending time with you. And Sweden has a lot to explore, so. It’s not all bad.” He lifts his head, looking at Hank. “I should probably go back to New York soon, though. Check up on my place there, make sure that everything’s still in order. I don’t even want to know what the mailbox must look like.”

Hank shrugs, but knows that it’s probably a good idea to double check on that. Plus, going back to New York lets him double check on his territory, to make sure that no young monsters or demons had attempted to move to his block during his absence.

But returning now might draw unwanted attention from the NHL, especially since their headquarters are in New York City.

“That’s a good idea and all, but maybe we should wait a bit and see what the agreements come to, I mean, last we saw, they weren’t anywhere close to a deal. They’re talking about cancelling the Winter Classic. Bettman even asked for a two week break.”

“Not that he got one. And does that really affect us?”

“Yeah, not that he got one,” Hank agrees, looking down at Marc. “Still think we should go over? Now or never, right?”

Marc grins, his first smile in too many hours. “Now you’re talking.”

Hank returns the smile with one of his own. Their bond pulses between them, a happy, fuzzy yellow.

* * *

“Please get us plane tickets.”

“You mean you don’t want to do a repeat of the journey you did to get here?”

The glare Marc gives him could level buildings.

Hank wisely decides to splurge and get two seats in First Class.

* * *

Leaving Marc in charge of watching their bags was probably the smartest idea, considering airports made his already standoffish personality that much more noticeable. The toque he wore, combined with the several layers of jackets made him look like a combination of model and heist master.

Hank snickers  to himself as he orders  said heist master a blueberry muffin and a large hot chocolate with whipped cream from the airport coffee shop. When he comes back, Marc’s flipping through something on his phone too fast for him to actually be processing it, with headphones in his ears. (Though Hank already knows he’s not playing anything.)

He sits beside him, and wordlessly offers him the drink and muffin. The gratitude on Marc’s face and the love flowing through the bond almost made up for the fact that they probably shouldn’t kiss again until they were at least in one of their houses in New York.

Hank itches to be closer to Marc, to rub up against him and make sure everyone knows that he’s taken. But this airport is full of humans, some of whom might recognize the two of them, which wouldn’t make the best impression. They just wouldn’t get it.

Soon enough, their flight is called, and they stand to take their luggage to the plane. Their seats are plenty big enough for two hockey players, and while nearly 11 hours isn’t a fun time to spend in any plane, it needs to be done. While waiting for the plane to taxi, the stream of people finally having trickled down to none, Hank gives in just a smidgen to lean over and quickly peck Marc’s lips.

He tastes like whipped cream and chocolate. Hank doesn’t have to be looking at him to know the exact shade of blush currently staining those cheeks.

* * *

Hank doesn’t check his phone until they’re sitting in the cab. Hank takes the front seat, knowing that Marc was in rare form after being trapped in a plane for so long. Not that the ride was pleasant for him either, but he was more accustomed to it than Marc.

He has a few texts from his siblings, as expected, and a few more notifications from Instagram, Twitter, and the like, but he sees a voicemail from his agent. Before he can unlock his phone to check it, however, another call comes through – from his agent.

He answers, more than a little bit disoriented. Before he can say anything, Candice cuts him off.

“Did you get my message?” she demands, clearly a bit frazzled.

“No, I just landed. Why, what’s –”

“Landed? Landed where!”

“New York?”

“How the…anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve been following the news at all but Hurricane Sandy just destroyed a good portion of the east coast. We’re doing a charity game to raise money for the relief efforts down there. You were asked to be the goalie for New York Team, and no, I had no say in the name. I was calling to tell you that I already bought your tickets but it appears it’s a moot point now.” When she finally stops to take a breath, Hank jumps in.

“Well that sounds wonderful and I’m thrilled that you thought of me. Of course I’ll do it. I was just coming back to New York to check up on my place, get a bit of a change of scenery. You know how siblings are.”

She laughs over the line, relief tangible in her tone. Hank hears the sound of drawers opening and closing in the background. “That I do. Alright, so that’s great, really great. Also, if you happen to run into Marc at all – I know the two of you are close, Hank – then try to get him to actually answer his phone? Mark-with-a-K has been up my ass trying to get a response from him.”

Hank turns around, catching Marc half dozing against the window of the cab. “Um,” he stalls, turning back around in his seat. “I can see what I can do.”

“Perfect. Also, my favorite flower is marigolds, you can send them to the office.”

“What on Earth are you talking about, Candice.”

“Well _someone_ had to clean up the mess around here after what you said to Sather a while back, and since I wasn’t allowed to contact you until now, I figured I’d throw that in there. I also would appreciate a nice rosé, you know how to pick good ones,” she replies. Hank can hear the smile in her voice.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he soothes. For all her energy (that sometimes was a bit misdirected in Hank’s opinion), Candice was a great agent. She treated him like a person, unlike the previous agent he’d had that seemed fit to work the vampire angle into any conversation. That one didn’t last long.

“Thanks! You’re the best, Hank. Well, I’ll let you get settled. The game’s in five days, on the 24th. We’ll arrange for transportation on our end of things, get your gear where it needs to be and all that. Keep an eye out for more calls from me, and please, _please,_ try to get Marc to answer his phone.”

“I’ll do my best, Candice.”

“Perfect! Alright, I’ll let you go. Talk soon!” She ends the call.

Hank, meanwhile, sits back and tries to enjoy the ride. He could have done it faster, but driving immediately after an 11-hour flight is not the smartest thing in the world.

(He does have to nudge Marc with his hand when they arrive, though. He’d fully passed out in the backseat.)

(It was adorable.)

* * *

The following days are filled with paperwork, phone calls, and the overall exciting buzz that makes this end-of-November stretch feel almost like preseason. It’s not a regulation game, and it’s not a real suiting up with the rest of the team, but it does feel great to get back where he’s belonging.

And, of course, being back in New York helps tons too. Reconnecting with fans always brightens Hank’s day, and he makes a point to try and answer as many questions as he can about where he’s been and what the League is doing. Of course, there are those who aren’t that thrilled with the current state of affairs, but they seem to register the fact that Hank himself isn’t responsible for the dragging of an entire season, so they maintain civility.

Being with Marc in New York has a newer edge to it now. Though the bond had roughly settled before they left Sweden, and they were comfortable using it over distances, it takes some time to get to know the exact combination of emotions that proved to be positive or negative.

(The first time Marc was surprised by a fan more or less cornering him at a bodega feels only a hair less urgent than the aftermath of the call with Jordan earlier in the month. When Hank went in and saw the situation, he’d had to quickly put on the media friendly persona, despite a healthy dose of _what the fuck_ being flung at Marc through the bond. After that, they got better at nuancing their perspectives.)

* * *

“HENKE!” The shout is the only warning he gets before he’s being hug-tackled by Dan, a wide smile on his face. “Where have you been, off in your castle in the clouds? And you, Staalsy, get in here!”

Hank barely manages to free himself from Dan’s grip only to watch him put Marc in a headlock. Their bond is all light fuzzy pinks and yellows, and their laughter echoes in the halls. Sure, Boardwalk Hall is no Madison Square Garden, but it holds a promise of hockey, and that’s all they can ask for right now.

Boyle comes around the corner, and he and Hank meet in a hug, while Marc struggles with Dan behind them. “How’ve things been?” Brian asks, and Hank can only shrug.

Brian laughs. “I feel that. C’mon, let’s meet the rest of the guys.”

“This is gonna be like the All-Star game that never was, isn’t it?” Marc asks, holding Dan at a distance.

“Yep! But without the glitz and glamour,” Dan cheerfully adds, leading the way back down the hall.

Once they enter the locker room, Hank and Marc freeze in unison. They had thought they were going to be the only non-humans on the team – not a new position to either of them – but upon seeing Matt freaking Martin, Hank realizes they were quite wrong.

The rest of the guys don’t seem to notice the three way staring contest between the vampire, the shapeshifter, and the angel. Not for the first time, Hank wishes he could live in that obliviousness.

This isn’t their first time meeting Matt. The Islanders share New York with the Rangers, after all. But they’d never spent a lot of time up close and personal in a way that didn’t involve Martin going after one of Hank’s D-men, or screening him during a play. Honestly, not the best memories to begin an acquaintanceship with.

Matt looks like he wants to say something, but instead changes his mind, just giving the both of them a knowing nod. Hank can’t help but feel a little bit exposed, and he curls his lip slightly in response.

He feels reproach deep in his chest coming from Marc, a warning to just calm the hell down. There’s no reason for him to get so upset about an all-knowing entity simply doing his job. Besides, Hank wouldn’t put it past him to be able to somehow see their bond, not just the fact that they’re not human.

The tension between them, however, is broken when Nealer runs into the room, holding his phone out. “Can someone tell me why our coach is that fucker from Jersey Shore?!”

* * *

Henrik catches Matt looking at him more than a few more times, and it’s starting to irritate him. Of course, he can’t do anything, what with the media in their faces, asking about what it’s like to be playing again, how they think the game will go, what they think of this acting as a fundraiser for the different relief funds, etc.

Sometime in the midst of it all, Marc grabs his arm and leans in to whisper, “We’re having dinner with Matt tonight. My place.”

Hank raises an eyebrow, but nods anyway. Better get this out of the way before it jeopardizes the possible only game they get to play this year.

But Marc’s not done.

“This was a last minute idea, I just named the place. So I don’t know the terms. But be on your best behavior, got it?”

“When am I not, älskling,” Hank murmurs, deliberately into Marc’s ear, his voice low and rough.

Marc shivers and slaps his arm. “Just then, you meatball.”

Hank smirks and continues down the hallway, not wanting to have Candice harassing him for being late to yet another interview. “That doesn’t sound like me at all!”

* * *

“So who’s idea was it for him to come over, exactly?” Hank asks, watching Marc’s back as he douses a baking pan in olive oil.

“Mine, actually,” Marc replies, now adding some chicken breast and vegetables to the pan. “He said he had some questions for us, and I thought it might be nice to extend an invitation. It’s not exactly locker room talk…I dunno, I just thought that it would be nice to actually have another on our team.”

Hank raises an eyebrow, but Marc misses the look, since his back is to him. “So you’re telling me that this has nothing to do with curiosity about how angels work, in the slightest?”

The bond prickles with a curious green energy shared between them. More of it comes from Marc’s end, though Henrik supposes that’s because he’s going to be the youngest in the room.

“Not just that, it’s…there aren’t any others, Hank. You can’t tell me that you’re not wondering a bit of the same. Monsters, demons, sure, but an angel? What even is that? And how does all of this affect him? How does –” Marc cuts himself off, hands stilling at the cutting board.

Hank gets up and walks over to him, putting one hand at the small of his back. “Marc…what is this really about?” he asks gently.

Marc sighs, but leans into the touch. “We’re not exactly a super religious family, but, small town minds…it sticks around. I’m not, like, doubting anything about us, at all,” he rushes to explain, his end of the bond shimmering in a pale yellow earnest light. “But I…would it be so bad to get someone else on our side?” His voice is quiet, and even his end of the bond settles down.

Hank pulls Marc to his side, and bites his lower lip in thought. Sweden isn’t the most religious country – nowhere in Scandinavia truly is – so he himself had no reservations or qualms with his new life, nor his sexuality. He’d never felt pressured by his family to change or hide who he was, especially since Gabriella and Joel, the only family that had survived with him into future centuries, accepted him without reservations.

Marc hadn’t been so lucky.

Hank didn’t know if it really was religion, or what religious texts would lay the grounds for acceptance of monsters (he hypothesized not many), but the small town mindset, he could relate to. And while he could see that Marc wasn’t changed by anything that had happened between them, he had witnessed first hand the tensions between him and his siblings as a result of that. If Gabriella or Joel tuned their backs on him, Hank knew he would be devastated.

Who was he to stand in the way of Marc trying to get some reassurance?

“If that’s what you want, älskling, I’ll stand by you,” Hank murmurs, rubbing his thumb in small circles against Marc’s back. “And…if you want to tell Dan, or Brian, too…we can.”

Marc looks at him, brows slightly furrowed. “About…the gay thing? Or the non-human thing?” he asks, clearly a bit confused.

Hank shrugs, not fazed by either option. “Whatever you’d like. Though Dan already knows about me being non-human, and of course the higher-ups too, they have to for us to play. Our relationship, though, that can be as private as you want it to be. But if it would make you feel better to tell people, I’ll be with you through that too. And if anyone gives you shit for it, I’m rather adept at hiding bodies.”

Marc blinks at him, studying his face. Hank tries to keep a straight face, but grins at the sheer confusion on Marc’s end of the bond. “I’m kidding, älskling. ‘Twas a joke.”

His end of the bond is purely serious, though. He would do whatever it takes to make sure that Marc was comfortable and had the acceptance that he clearly needed. Having his family turn against him was one thing, but the Rangers were another family all in their own.

“They do care about you, you know,” Hank adds, before nodding to the pan. “And I’m no expert in cooking, but I think that should go in, if you want it to be done by the time Matt gets here.”

The bond shifts from confusion to something fonder, a wispy kind of cream color. Marc kisses Hank briefly, before moving to finish up the dinner prep.

“Do you want anything to eat?” he asks, throwing a teasing smile over his shoulder.

Hank snorts, and shakes his head. “I’ll take you up on that offer later. Need you in top form for this talk tonight,” he adds.

“Sure sure. Now get out of this kitchen, I need to get things done and we’ve established that you’re not allowed in here without supervision.”

“Only if you promise to change, there’s no way you’re having dinner in _that,_ ” Hank counters, gesturing to Marc’s t-shirt and jeans.

“Henrik, black tie doesn’t apply in your _own house._ ”

“So you think!”

“Get out!”

* * *

Matt arrives just as the final timer dings. Hank watches Marc freeze, clearly torn between dealing with the food and answering the door. It’s Marc’s house, Marc’s initiated conversation, and that means Marc should open the door, but on the other hand, Hank knows that Marc doesn’t trust him anywhere near the food. He decides to go for it, waving a hand at Marc to let him know it’s okay to handle the food.

Opening the door, he greets Matt with a warm but cordial greeting. The angelic one steps in, a bottle of Chardonnay tucked under his arm.

“How did you know?” Hank asks, motioning to the wine. It’s a sharp guess, to pair well with the roasted chicken, but too specific for it to have been a general gift.

Matt only smiles, ducking his head a bit in a bashful way. “I Saw. I hope that wasn’t an imposition, I know that some don’t like it when I Look too far.”

Hank’s suspicious, but tries not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Well, it’s a thoughtful gift. Thank you, for that.”

At this point, Marc comes around the corner, looking between the two of them. “Dinner’s set, if you want, Matt,” he offers, taking the wine and smiling at him. His end of the bond is nervous, but excited. He wants something good to come of this, something positive, and Hank taps down his possessive streak to ensure that this happens.

He steps back, going into the dining room and taking a seat at the chair between the two place sets. The food certainly _looks_ appetizing, but he feels no attraction to it at all.

Marc and Matt come in behind him, Marc briefly touching the back of Hank’s neck, before taking a seat. Matt sits on his other side, moving with grace that he was not known for on the ice.

The wine is opened and poured, and as they dig in, Hank can’t stop himself from asking, “How old are you, exactly?”

Matt pauses briefly, before answering, “23. Just like you’re 30.” He then takes a bite of his chicken, and Hank raises an eyebrow.

Marc sends the emotional equivalent of kicking him under the table over the bond, and Hank schools his expression. “And is that by choice, or just the way the cards fell?” Hank asks, soothing Marc with a brief apology.

“It’s the way I needed to be, I guess. I’ll keep aging until I get to be where I need to, but I don’t see this changing all that much from now until then,” Matt responds. “But to answer your question, I’m pretty old. Save for Cullen and Jagr, there’s not many older than me in the league.”

Hank feels Marc’s shock at the names dropped. “Wait, you’ve…how do you know that?” Marc asks, his tone barely concealing his shock.

“They’re timewalkers,” Matt responds, shrugging slightly. “They’re sort of…consciousness’s that get thrown into different lives at different times. And then they live them out until they’re needed elsewhere or die in that life. Then they find a new one. I never really interacted with them, but they’re a little more like me, I guess. Neither demon nor monster, but still not human.”

“So you can tell what someone is just by looking at them?” Hank asks. He’d heard of omniscience before but what were its limits?

“I could tell just by Looking at the two of you that you are bonded, it’s relatively new, and it’s not something either of you expected, thought you both enjoy it. You’re a level five shapeshifter,” he nods to Marc, “and you’re a vampire. Henrik’s around 300 years old, while Marc has never been anything else. And Marc is the most powerful in his family, while Hank has changed both of his siblings.” He pauses and bites his lower lip. “At least, that’s what I’ve gleaned from the rink to here.”

Henrik didn’t know what he was expecting, but he hadn’t thought it would be like this. Marc mirrors his surprise, and Hank sends a bit of curiosity over to Marc. Does he want to go first, or should Hank continue on with the questions?

Marc just shrugs, and gives him a little nudge over the bond. As if Henrik would argue the chance to interview their guest further, but just to send his point home, Marc puts a piece of broccoli in his mouth, effectively silencing him.

Hank just gives him an only slightly amused shove back over the bond, before turning his attention back to Matt. “So…you know all of this, by, what, powers or something else? And what did you retain when you chose life here? Also, why here? At least, long term.”

Matt’s shoulders stiffen, but when he looks at Hank, he’s smiling. “I didn’t exactly have a choice in where I was assigned, so, I just stayed here. As far as abilities go, I have the Sight, which lets me see the Truth. But I also have common decency, which means a lot of what I See goes unmentioned. Fighting, of course. And a bit of hellfire too, though that’s not something I reach for normally.”

“And flight?” Hank asks, a brow raised.

At this, Matt’s smile takes a bit of an edge to it. “Like all naughty children, I’ve been grounded. For quite a while.”

“I’m sorry,” Marc softly cuts in. “for that. How long ago was it?”

“A few thousand years. Skin heals, we move on.” Matt shrugs again, but it’s not as carefree as the other ones.

“Still hurts when family turns their backs on you,” Marc adds, his voice still soft.

Matt nods, his mouth a thin line. “Yes, it does.”

* * *

After dinner, they reconvene in the living room, Matt sitting on one of the chairs, his legs tucked under him cross-legged. He’s checking his phone, a beer balancing on the side of his knee.

Marc sits on the couch nearest to him, reclined back with a beer in his hand. Hank sits beside him, one arm over the back of the couch, his fingers playing with Marc’s hair. Football’s on in the background, interrupted every so often with a new news story about the NHL lockout and the upcoming charity game.

A few moments of amicable silence pass, before Marc stirs, turning to look at the angel. “Hey, Matt? What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Being so…different, from everyone else,” Marc asks. “Like, not demon, not monster, not human. What was that even like?”

Matt laughs slightly. “Um, I’d say lonely is the first word that comes to mind. Definitely strange, at times. I don’t think that the politics of the sport know what to do with me, especially with the way things are now,” he adds, motioning to the TV screen where Gary Bettman is holding some kind of press conference. “But I’m kind of a secret as far as the general populous goes, so. It’s peaceful, if reclusive.”

“And being surrounded by us, what’s…what’s that like?” There’s hesitancy in Marc’s tone, prompting Hank to slide his hand into Marc’s. He brings their hands up, pressing a kiss to Marc’s knuckles. He sees Marc blush at the attention, and takes a bit of pride in that.

“Surrounded by others like you, or by you two yourselves?” Matt asks gently.

“Um…both, I guess.”

“Well, by others like you, it’s no different than being surrounded by people. So called “monsters” are no different to me than humans. Demons, on the other hand, are more difficult to be around,” Matt explains, taking a swig of his beer. “I’m sure you can guess why an angel and demons might have some…disagreements.”

Hank can read the tension in Matt’s body, can see the weight of past actions weighing down on him. One of the curses of living a long life, Hank knows. While consequences don’t always materialize immediately afterwards, it doesn’t mean the emotional toll takes a break.

Matt looks up, his blue eyes a shade lighter and slightly brighter than they had been before, and when he looks at Marc, Hank feels a gentle, testing tugging in his chest, like Marc’s physically pulling on the bond. He pulls Marc closer instinctively, narrowing his eyes at the defenseman.

Then Matt smiles, and his eyes fade down to their natural blue. The moment they do, the tugging stops, and the bond goes back to normal. Hank feels cautiously through it. He knows, just by looking at Marc, that he’s physically okay, that no harm had come to him, but he couldn’t rationalize his way out of checking the bond. This was something he _had_ to do.

Marc welcomed him on the other side, gently soothing over his probing questions. Underneath that, though, was an undercurrent of suspicion. “What the hell was that?”

“I was reading your bond,” Matt answers, his hands raised a bit in a placating gesture. “I could See it before, but that was more like touching it. Apologies; I won’t do it again.”

Hank bristles at the way Matt so carelessly handles his trespassing into their most intimate connection. “You shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” he growls, his hand tightening on Marc’s.

“No harm would have come to your _själsfrände,_ Henrik, nor to you,” Matt replies, meeting Hank’s gaze evenly, the Swedish phrase rolling off his tongue with an ease Hank hadn’t expected. “And if I were to answer his questions, I would have needed to read it anyway.”

“You can’t just –”

“And what did it tell you?” Marc interrupts, squeezing Hank’s hand to get him to stop. Henrik doesn’t calm, but he does stop talking.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with vampiric interspecies bonds,” Matt answers. “Vampires aren’t the most social of creatures, and so those kinds of bonds are rare. But yours, I have to say, is one of the most natural melding of souls and minds that I have ever seen.” Matt’s voice goes soft as he says, “It’s like you two were meant to be together. If I were what I once was, I might be able to tell you about the strings of fate or plans, or whatever it is you believe in, that would have pushed you together. As it is, however, I can’t. Circumstances aside, it’s pure and healthy, and that’s the most that anyone could ask for.”

All of a sudden, there’s an explosion of color and feelings from the bond, rushing in waves over Hank, distracting him temporarily. A release of pent up fear and anxiety, washed away with relief and security at Matt’s words. The cold, hard lumps of negative emotions break away in the face of such levity and faith, eroding into nothingness.

If those were just a hint of what Marc had been hiding away, had been keeping locked inside him, Hank didn’t know how he would have survived. The pure liberated feeling fills his consciousness, and he doesn’t know how to process it.

Somehow, he has enough brain space left to pick up on what his senses are telling him. He smells saltwater – someone’s crying – and hears Marc’s low voice muffled by something else. Hank shakes his head a bit, tampering down on the secondary emotions and looks over at Marc.

He’s standing, hugging Matt and muffling his sobs into the shoulder of the fallen one. “…just wanted them to…accept me,” Marc mumbles, just enough for Hank to hear.

“I know, I know,” Matt murmurs, rubbing one hand soothingly down Marc’s back. “But they’ll come around. Something tells me, it might be sooner than you think.”

Marc pulls back, standing up to his full height, yet still feeling so vulnerable. He wipes his tears away, and Hank aches to be the one to do that for him, but he knows this is something Marc needs to do. For himself, to quiet the doubts in his head.

“Did you See that?” Marc asks, sniffling a bit.

Matt just smiles warmly, ducking his head slightly. “No, no. But I’ve watched enough families to know that most of the time, things work out. Especially ones with as tight a dynamic as you have with your brothers. I know things are rough now, but they’ll come around.”

Marc nods at the information, and then asks, “Can you See anything into what the ending of this lockout is going to be?”

Matt chuckles and shakes his head, stepping a bit back from Marc now, restoring personal space boundaries. “I can’t see the future, Marc. Just through veils of magic. Though, given enough time on this planet, I’ve learned how to see through the veils of shoddily thrown together business plans as well.” He shrugs and reaches down to pick up his beer from the chair arm. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that they don’t want to lose another full season about a decade after they lost the first one. It won’t restore confidence in them all that easily.”

Hank gets to his feet. Marc sways slightly into him, taking comfort in his presence. The last vestiges of vulnerability still cling to his end of the bond, even though he’s since shifted to more conversational topics. “Well we thank you for the company, but it is getting late,” he gently prompts.

Matt nods, a smile on his face. “I get it, I do.” He swings his jacket on as he takes a step towards the door. “It’s been nice. We might not have time to do this again, but if you ever need to talk, just give me a call, yeah?”

Hank nods in agreement, and gives a little squeeze to Marc’s hand before saying, “Let me walk you out,” to Matt.

The vampire and the angel walk to the door, and there, Hank pauses, before turning to evaluate Matt. The taller of the two lacks a pulse, can see things no one else can, and doesn’t seem affected by being the sole focus of an underfed vampire at the moment. Hank feels out of his depth, and from the slight smirk on Matt’s face, he knows this.

But this isn’t about Hank. It never was.

This is about Marc.

“You didn’t just tell him that to make him happy, right?” he murmurs, sliding his hands in his pockets. “That the bond is healthy and all that?”

“Why would I have reason to lie to him?” Matt counters, also keeping his voice low. “He loves you, and you him. I don’t need my Sight to see that.”

Hank nods, smiling unconsciously when it comes to thinking about Marc. “And his family? Did you mean that part too?”

“I have a feeling they’ll reach out sooner rather than later,” Matt replies, shrugging a bit. “I don’t think a clan as tight as the Staal’s will let something like this drive them apart permanently.”

“…What about the end of this? How will that go?”

“The end of what, Hank?”

“When…if he…” Hank can’t make himself say the words, but Matt seems to know his meaning.

“I can’t say for certain. Like I said, I don’t know what bonds like this entail, I haven’t seen many of them. And the lifespan of a shapeshifter as powerful as he isn’t that well documented. I was no guardian angel back when I had my powers, so that sort of thing never really fell to my attention,” he admits, before motioning to the other room. “I’d spend some time with him, though.”

Hank nods, taking a step back from the threshold. Matt gets the hint, and with a, “Let’s kick ass tomorrow, yeah?” he takes his leave.

Hank watches the closed door for a few moments, just taking in all that had transpired. Eventually, Marc gets up and comes over to him, resting his chin on Hank’s shoulder. “Are you gonna stand here all night or come help me with the dishes?” he whispers, like it’s some big secret.

The Swede turns to give him a side-eye. “But I didn’t dirty them.”

“So you _don’t_ want to help me?” Marc asks, giving him his best puppy eyes.

Hank sighs, and kisses Marc’s temple. “You’re so lucky that I love you,” he mutters, but slips out of Marc’s grip to head into the kitchen.

“I know,” comes the cheerful reply.

* * *

They beat Team New Jersey 10-6.

Scott Hartnell cracks a joke that the time off didn’t change Hank’s ability to play in the slightest. When Marc tells him about that particular soundbite, he can’t help but smile.

This is the closest he’s felt to normal in a long time.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Meditation Process Already Over as Sides Return to Respective Corners** Nov 29, 2012

“After spending several hours with both sides over two days, the presiding mediators concluded that the parties remained far apart and that no progress toward a resolution could be made through further mediation at this point in time. We are disappointed that the mediation process was not successful.” – NHL deputy commissioner, Bill Daly

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: 18 Players to Meet with 6 Owners** Dec 4, 2012

The NHL Players Association announced on Tuesday afternoon that 18 players will be participating in a meeting with six owners later on Tuesday afternoon.

The meeting will take place without the presence of NHL commissioner Gary Bettman or NHLPA executive director Donald Fehr in the hopes of opening a dialogue between the two sides to gain traction in negotiations. However, special counsel Steve Fehr will be present for the union as will NHL deputy commissioner Bill Daly for the owners, among other counsel.

The players who will be in attendance for the meeting are as follows: Craig Adams, David Backes, Mike Cammalleri, Sidney Crosby, B.J. Crombeen, Mathieu Darche, Shane Doan, Ron Hainsey, Shawn Horcoff, Jamal Mayers, Manny Malhotra, Andy McDonald, Ryan Miller, George Parros, Brad Richards, Martin St. Louis, Jonathan Toews and Kevin Westgarth.

There is no word yet on what the demographics of these players are, and if any of them come bearing insider knowledge on the recent non-human controversy’s. Though it goes against most League policy to expose oneself as a monster or demon when representing one’s team or in public, perhaps that policy will be on hold for the duration of this meeting.

They will be meeting with Jeremy Jacobs (owner of the Boston Bruins), N. Murray Edwards (Calgary Flames), Ted Leonsis (Washington Capitals), Craig Leipold (Minnesota Wild), Ron Burkle (Pittsburgh Penguins) and Larry Tanenbaum (Toronto Maple Leafs).

The meeting is scheduled to start around 2 p.m., ET in New York.

* * *

The phone is what wakes him up. Hank doesn’t open his eyes, just reaches over to the bedside table to try and silence it. Only once he clicks the ringer off does he squint to see who’s calling him.

The first thing he notices is that it’s after 2:30 in the morning. The second thing he notices is that Sidney Crosby is calling him, and, as the call fails to go through, he realizes has been trying to get ahold of him through text for the better part of an hour.

Clearly this isn’t an issue that can wait, so he heaves himself up, rubbing a hand over his face. Marc stirs slightly, fingers reaching out to the still warm sheets that Hank had just vacated. He leans down to press a kiss to the shapeshifter’s temple, and that soothes him back to sleep. It’s almost peaceful, watching him.

But his phone lights up again, and he knows he needs to answer this.

He heads out of the bedroom, making his way down to the living room instead, making sure to close the door behind him.

“This better be good, Sidney,” he mutters, his voice still rough with sleep.

“And here I thought vampires were creatures of the night,” Sid counters, his voice clearly amused. “Look I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but I was in a meeting with some of the owners. Bettman and Fehr weren’t there. They wanted to talk about the remaining issues.”

“Yeah, and?”

“I brought up the safety regulations being skewed against non-humans and they looked at me like I was crazy. But it was kind of a grey area if I could name drop anything. No one in that room but Ron knows that I’m not one, either. So that was a great time.” The sarcasm was thick, and Hank was too tired to handle Sidney being this awake at this hour.

“Sid is there a point to this?”

“They said they were considering renegotiating it. I kind of pushed them on that point until they swore they were going to renegotiate it. And now, the League and the Players’ Association just finished up their marathon meetings like an hour ago, and they think they’re going to keep those provisions.”

Hank wakes up a bit at that. “Wait, _what._ ”

“The League says that they want to keep the safety changes profiled against non-humans, Hank. If the NHLPA agrees to that, then all they have to fight over is the split in HRR between players and owners. Keeping those terms makes it easier to negotiate, which makes it more likely that we’ll get a season.”

“So we’ll get our full season at the expense of being treated like liabilities, is that what you’re telling me?”

“And that’s just the paperwork side of it,” Sid continues. Hank can hear papers shuffling in the background, Sidney clearly flipping through something. “They more or less said that if they keep the provisions then that’s fine for fining and such – but if it goes in the rule book then that will affect practical play.”

“So the refs are going to be in the pocket of the League.”

“Which means anyone that they so much as suspect as being non-human gets profiled on the ice.”

“And any arguments we make for reviewing plays or changing calls –”

“—could be viewed as Abuse of Officials and other Misconducts,” Sidney finishes. “Even if they’re a captain or alternate and have the right to talk to the refs in place of a coach.” His voice is muffled for a second, and Hank can visualize the exhausted way he’s rubbing a hand over his face right now.

“Well shit.”

“I know.”

The line is quiet for a bit, and Hank lets it sit, before asking, “Why’d you call me?”

At this, Sidney lets out a humorless laugh. “Because, aside from me and Tanger, you’re the other player that comes to mind when people think of players challenging calls.”

“Ha ha,” Hank retorts dryly. It’s not a false statement, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“But in all seriousness, I just thought you might want to know. Especially since we all saw what Eric was willing to do on the ice. I don’t know what’s going to happen if shit like that doesn’t get called in the future.”

“How does that affect you, I thought Jordan got traded to the Canes?”

“I’m not talking about Jordan, I’m talking about you. Don’t act like you wouldn’t argue for a call if something happened to Marc and no ref saw it.”

Hank’s silence says more than any of his words could. But before it gets too awkward, Sid continues.

“Listen, I’m gonna let you go now, get some sleep. I’ll keep you updated if I have anything else, okay?” he offers. “Something’s going to give soon, I can feel it.”

“Alright. Want me to do any snooping or…”

“No, no. Just enjoy whatever it is you’re doing. Also great job at that game,” he adds, and Hank can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah, well, hopefully I’ll get to actually use that in a real game sometime soon,” Hank adds, unsuccessfully trying to stop a yawn.

Sid just hums quietly. “Goodnight, Henrik.”

“Night, Sid.”

The line goes dead. Hank rubs his hand down his face as he slowly makes his way back to the bedroom. Curling back up next to Marc calms him down like nothing else.

* * *

**Renaud Lavoie  
** @renlavoietva  
Gary Bettman: “we were waiting today for a yes or a no. Not for a negotiation session.”  
7:52pm – 6 Dec 2012

* * *

**Jesse Spector  
** @jessespector  
Term limits for contracts “a hill we will die on,” Bill Daly says.  
8:01pm – 6 Dec 2012

* * *

**Jesse Spector  
** @jessespector  
Bettman: “I reject the notion that there’s distrust. … What you’re witnessing is very tough bargaining.”  
8:07pm – 6 Dec 2012

* * *

**Pierre LeBrun  
** @Real_ESPNLeBrun  
Bettman says league has not set a drop-dead date for cancelling season, not even internally  
8:06pm – 6 Dec 2012

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Games through Dec. 30 Officially Cancelled** Dec 10, 2012

The NHL’s official statement confirms: 526 games have now been canceled, or 42.8 percent of the season. The lockout is presently in its 86th day.


	3. petrichor

Tangled together in Hank’s bed, lazy and warm, Marc’s almost purring beneath Hank’s mouth. Hank pulls back, licking his fangs free of Marc’s blood. “After all this time,” he murmurs, licking the bite mark closed, “you still taste sweet as ever.”

Marc hums in a kind of disoriented agreement. He’s always pliant and soft after Hank drinks from him, and Hank loves it.

Hank shimmies down the bed, sliding one thigh between Marc’s legs. His fingers brush small circles over Marc’s bare chest, connecting the freckles he finds there. Marc rolls onto his side after a few moments, reaching over and pulling Hank closer. Hank reaches up and takes Marc’s arm in his hand, content to move his freckle connection game to those scattered across Marc’s arm.

“Henke.”

Hank hums at the gentle whisper of his name, looking up at Marc through his lashes. He presses soft kisses to the inside of Marc’s wrist, his fingertips tracing the blue lines on his upper arms.

“What is Swedish Christmas like?” Marc asks, a kind of lazy curiosity uncurling through the bond.

“I haven’t really celebrated it in quite some time,” Hank admits, nuzzling his chin into Marc’s relaxed hand. “And Scandinavia isn’t that religious to begin with. We’ve kept more Pagan or heathen traditions, whatever the word is for it. And there’s Santa Lucia procession, which involves a lot of candles and I think it’s some kind of competition now. We do put up Christmas trees, but we decorate them with our flag in addition to the rest of more commercialized decorations. Also Disney characters, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

He tilts his head to the side, looking up at Marc with a lazy smile. “Why you ask?”

Marc shrugs and gently rubs his fingers through the shorter strands of Hank’s hair, in the circles he knows he loves so much. “Just curious. What did you do during the break we get for New Years then?”

Hank hums softly, leaning into the touch. “Just stayed in New York, mostly. Called my siblings, if they were available.”

“Would you want anything for Christmas?”

The question takes Hank by a kind of subdued surprise. He frowns slightly in thought. “I dunno, älskling. What about you, what would you like?”

Marc shrugs, slightly jostling Hank in the process. “I usually spent it with my parents and brothers, so…” He trails off, letting that speak for itself.

Hank reaches up to cup Marc’s jaw, rubbing his thumb over his beard. “Well. If you want, we can try Thunder Bay. Or we can stay here in New York. See the tree, be utter tourists. Or be extravagant and go travel some more.”

“Back to Sweden?” Marc asks, leaning into the touch.

“Or to Britain, or France, or Germany,” Hank offers. “I’ve been through those a couple of times around this time of year. Very festive, lots of lights.”

Marc stews over the idea for bit. In the silence, Hank resumes his freckle connections, interspersing kisses every once in a while.

“You’d be okay with whatever I’d suggest?” Marc eventually asks.

“Of course, älskling.”

“Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Of course. I mean, we have two weeks until Christmas day, so if you want to do anything involving a lot of travel, you might want to get back to me sooner rather than later. But anything would go,” Hank answers, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

The movement rubs his thigh against Marc in a way that makes the shapeshifter groan softly. Hank smirks and slowly grinds his hips, teasing the younger of the two.

Marc rolls them over, pinning Hank beneath him with a searing kiss, licking inside Hank’s mouth, heedless of the fangs.

They don’t talk for a while after that.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: President Obama Tells League, Players to ‘Do Right by Your Fans’** Dec 14, 2012

“You know, look. I’ve got to say, because we’ve had an NBA lockout, we’ve had an NFL lockout during the course of my presidency, the president of the United States shouldn’t have to get involved in a sports lockout. My message to owners and to players is, you guys make a lot of money and you make a lot of money on the backs of fans, so do right by your fans.

You can figure out how much to spread out a bunch of revenue that you’re bringing in, but do right by the people who support you. And I shouldn’t have to be involved in a dispute between really wealthy players and even wealthier owners. They should be able to settle themselves. And remember who it is that’s putting all that money in their pockets.” – President Barack Obama

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: League Files Lawsuit, Says NHLPA is Bargaining in ‘Bad Faith’** Dec 14, 2012

The NHL announced late Friday that they’ve filed a lawsuit in the United States Federal Court with hopes that the court will “confirm the ongoing legality” of the 2012 league lockout.

The lawsuit is a direct result of news earlier Friday that the NHLPA is moving forward with plans that could lead to a “disclaimer of interest” or, in other words, the dissolving of the union. The NHL claimed that the NHLPA has “threatened” to disclaim interest.

The league also filed an unfair labor practice charge with the National Labor Relations Board, claiming that the union is conducting “bad faith bargaining” under the National Labor Relations Act and that they are “unlawfully subverting” the collective bargaining process.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: NHLPA Says League’s Lawsuit ‘Completely Without Merit’** Dec 14, 2012

“The NHL appears to be arguing that players should be stopped from even considering their right to decide whether or not to be represented by a union. We believe that their position is completely without merit.” – NHLPA representatives

* * *

“Hey babe?”

“Yes, älskling?”

“I think I want to stay here for the holiday.”

“Here in New York?”

“Yep.”

“Then we can do that.”

* * *

A day later, Hank comes back to his house only to find his windows lit up with a soft white glow. From the driveway, he can see the fairy lights wrapping around the inside of his living room and the little candles in the windows. With the snow on the roof and front yard, it looks a bit like a Christmas card.

It would be cute, if not for the fact that Hank didn’t do any of that.

He wasn’t even sure he  _ had  _ Christmas lights at this house.

When he gets out of his car, he just stands for a few more minutes in confusion, before making his way inside. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and vanilla, and those are definitely not scents that he comes home to every day. It feels like a holiday, but what gets him is the sound of two voices coming from the living room.

He spares a glance at the island covered in cooling cookies of various shapes and sizes, and follows his ears to the den. Marc’s sitting on one of the couches, as he expected, but his conversational partner took him by complete surprise.

Jared Staal.

The youngest Staal sits on the other couch, at the end closest to his brother. Between them there’s two empty pizza boxes resting on the table and a couple beers scattered on the black surface. The atmosphere is amicable, and Hank feels no distress from Marc at all.

But it still comes as a surprise.

They both look up at him when he comes in, seeming caught. “Can I…help you?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

Marc looks like he’s about to speak, but Jared stands first, and offers a hand to Hank. “Jared, the other ginger, the youngest one, the level two, yadda yadda yadda,” he offers by way of introduction.

Hank looks briefly at Marc, who is just staring at the interaction with wide eyes, before taking the offered hand. “Henrik, the vampire,” he offers, still a bit taken aback.

“I wanted to come by and say what happened between Eric, Jordie, and our parents, about you guys…I think the whole thing’s just fucking stupid.” He shrugs, rocking back on his heels a bit.

Hank can see striking similarities between Jared’s face and Marc’s, but their personalities couldn’t be more different. “Do you…support it?”

Jared shrugs. “You make Marc happy, you keep him safe; why would I get a hair across my ass just because you’re not a ‘shifter like us? Besides, I don’t think at this point anything that I do would stop it. Marc already told me about your whole, bonded, whuels-friende thing.”

Hank grimaces at the butchering of the Swedish word. “ _ Själsfrände _ , but good attempt.”

At this point Marc nudges him over the bond a bit, before he stands. “Hey, J, excuse us for a second.”

Jared amicably nods and flops back down on the couch. Marc stands and grabs Hank’s elbow, leading him back out to the garage.

“What the actual fuck?” Henrik whispers once the door is closed.

“Well I certainly didn’t invite him, if that’s what you’re implying,” Marc counters in an equally hushed tone. “He just showed up. Said he had to talk to me about something.”

“How the hell does he know where I live?”

“He asked Jordy a while back,” Marc admits, looking askance. “I didn’t think anything of it.”

Hank thinks back to nearly seven years ago when he found scattered paw prints around the base of his house. “Did he come alone?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, he said he wanted to do some traveling, or something. Didn’t bring Eric or Jordy with him,” Marc continues, still avoiding Hanks’ gaze.

“…What did he say?”

“He told you the truth, really. Well, the short version of it. He just wanted to say that, you know, he’s fine with this, and he still supports me and all that…that we’re still brothers,” Marc offers softly.

Hank feels the fight leave his body, and reaches up to cup Marc’s cheek. “Look at me, älskling,” he murmurs, guiding his attention back to him. “If you want him here, he’s more than welcome. It just took me by surprise to see him here. A little warning next time, okay?”

Marc smiles and nods, his blush spreading over his nose and cheeks. “Okay. Though I don’t anticipate anyone else showing up here looking for some kind of resolution,” Marc murmurs, before leaning down to kiss Hank.

Hank hums and opens his mouth into the kiss, content to just settle in the moment.

After a few breaths, Marc pulls back, resting his forehead against Hank’s. He says something, but Hank’s still a bit muddled from the kiss, and really is only focusing on how to get another one.

“Henke.”

“Hmm?”

“I asked what you got today, in the city.”

“A surprise, so don’t go snooping around, okay?” Hank hums, pressing one more kiss to Marc’s lips.

Marc whines softly at the kiss, but now it’s Hank that pulls back. “Your little brother is inside.”

“Yeah, so? He’s probably just eating the cookies we made.”

“Oh so that was you two?”

“Well it’s not like any Keebler elves broke in to make them.”

“No, just a shapeshifter and my älskling,” Hank replies, turning to go back into the house. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let your brother attempt Swedish without actual instruction.”

Marc’s still laughing when they get inside. Jared looks up from his phone, still splayed on the couch.

He looks over the both of them, before turning to Hank. “So we cool?”

Hank nods, offering a small smile. “We’re cool.”

“Awesome.”

* * *

Jared sticks around for a few days, coming and going as he pleases. He’s a fair bit less serious than Marc, and keeps his scent pulled in close to him whenever he can but freely using his shapeshifting abilities.

The fourth time Hank finds Jared snoozing as some kind of snake on top of a heating duct, he just has to accept that this has become his life.

* * *

Hank’s stretched out on the couch, playing solitaire on his phone when he gets the alert. Marc’s lying partially on top of him, with his head resting on Hank’s chest, and Jared’s out terrorizing local pets or whatever it is he does.

There’s no small amount of dread when he opens the notification. These days, updates from the NHL app were bound to be shitty.

But this one takes the cake.

Hank can feel his heart sinking as he reads the short article over and over again. Marc, picking up on his distress, nuzzles closer, trying to calm him. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“If they don’t have an agreement by January 14 th , the season is lost.”

Marc rubs his cheek against the softness of Hank’s shirt, and reaches one hand up blindly. Hank gives him his left hand, weaving their fingers together.

“If that happens,” Marc murmurs, “We’ll just figure it out. Okay?”

That they are, in fact, a  _ we _ , still makes Hank’s heart flutter in pleasant ways. It reifies the fact that Marc isn’t going to leave him anytime soon, and that alone means more than words can say. So he just sends love and adoration over the bond, squeezes Marc’s hand, and murmurs, “M’kay.”

* * *

Christmas Eve slinks by, leaving eggnog, bad caroling, and holiday joy in its wake. Christmas Day passes by in much the same fashion. Everyone exchanges gifts, including Jared and Hank. (Just because he was originally suspicious of the man doesn’t mean that he’s going to be rude about it.)

In the lull between Christmas and New Years, Jared says his goodbyes.

“It’s not that you guys aren’t awesome, you are. It’s just that Mom and Dad are kind of anxious to get me back. It’s better I go back than they come here,” he explains, his lone backpack of possessions that he’d brought with him affixed to his back.

“Are you  _ absolutely  _ sure you don’t want to take a flight,” Marc offers for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, yes. Self transportation is cheaper and I already made this trip one way, I can do it the other way.” Then Jared smirks a bit. “Besides, some suburb of New York City is a helluva lot closer to Thunder Bay than freaking  _ Sweden _ .”

Hank can’t help the chuckle that escapes at that little dig.

“Okay, yeah, you’re fine,” Marc replies, pushing Jared out the door.

His youngest brother leaves with a laugh, waving cheerfully over his shoulder at the both of them.

Once he’s gone, Hank turns to retreat back to his Sudoku puzzle waiting for him on the coffee table. Marc follows, and though it’s already a bit quieter without the youngest Staal around, it still feels like home.

* * *

They ring in the New Year in Hank’s bed, their bond alight with need and love. By the time the soft dawn light of 2013 peeks through the shades, each has been marked with deep, bruising claims of love.

Neither would have it any other way.

* * *

**NHL Lockout 2012: Battle Returns to Court as CBA Talks Slow** Jan 3, 2013

“The NHL is using this suit in an attempt to force the players to remain in a union. Not only is it virtually unheard of for an employer to insist on the unionization of its employees, it is also directly contradicted by the rights guaranteed to employees under Section 7 of the National Labor Relations Act.

The NHL’s gun-jumping suit is simply an attempt to have these issues decided in the forum of it’s choosing, which is an improper use of the declaratory judgment mechanism. For the foregoing reasons, Defendants respectfully request that the Court dismiss the Complaint in its entirety.” – NHLPA motion to dismiss the NHL’s lawsuit

* * *

**Bruce Garrioch  
** @SunGarrioch  
No meeting scheduled but the mediator is heading into his 12 th hour on the job. #NHL #NHLPA  
9:44pm – 4 Jan 2013

* * *

**Renaud Lavoie  
** @renlavoietva  
12 hours later, the mediation process is still going and its possible it won’t end soon  
10:01pm – 4 Jan 2013

* * *

**NHL Lockout Update: CBA Talks Continue into Late Saturday Night** Jan 5, 2013

The NHL and NHLPA continue to meet at the union’s hotel in New York City on Saturday night, nearly eight hours after the first face-to-face meeting in two days began. Cautious optimism remains that a deal is within reach although there are still some fine print issues that must be hammered out for a deal to be concluded, even in principle.

Federal mediator Scot Beckenbaugh has been given hero status after managing to pull negotiations from the brink of another breakdown, after the NHLPA felt insulted by a “sneaky” change in one of the proposals by the league.

Some wonder if the “sneaky” change was an attempt to enforce the League’s proposal to disproportionately target non-human players with respects to fines, game misconducts, and other on-ice calls. Fans were in an uproar when the policy was first proposed back in late September/early October, but this doesn’t seem to have slowed the NHL’s approach to this policy.

According to Tom Guilitti of The Record, the NHLPA has agreed to a 10-year CBA term with an opt-out clause for both sides after eight years. Among other contested issues there are reports that the NHL has agreed to move off the proposed $60 million cap for 2013-14, while the players have apparently moved down to $64.3 million.

Only time will tell if the monsters and demons disclosure policy changes anytime soon. But we hope it comes sometime in the next nine days, or else it won’t matter; the season will be dead by then.

* * *

Sitting outside in January in Central Park past dark isn’t the most painful thing that Henrik had gone through in his life, but it’s certainly not the most comfortable experience either. Snuggling up to Marc doesn’t do much for the biting chill, but it does help some. A bottle of rosé sits tucked under his arm, and every once in a he pulls out his phone to check the texts.

The last one remains sitting there from where it had arrived, ten minutes prior.

_ Okay, omw! _

“Where the hell is she?” Hank mutters, burying his face in Marc’s neck.

Marc shrugs, and wraps his arms slightly tighter around the Swede. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Their miserable commiserating is interrupted by the rapid sound of footsteps on the snow, light and fast. Soon after, Candice comes into view, holding a cardboard drink tray in her hands.

“I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be caught dead out in the woods, especially at this time of year,” she accuses, pointing a manicured nail at Hank. “And you, here you are. I didn’t know if you took coffee at all but the King over here says that you like chocolate so, I hope hot chocolate’s okay!”

She pulls the bigger drink off the drink tray, handing the warm to-go cup to a stunned Marc. He takes it, and Hank sits up to let him better handle the hot beverage.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to,” he replies, still not really sure what had occurred.

Hank was sympathetic. He understood the effect Candice had on people when she wasn’t being aware of herself. At times he thought that she was part Veela, but she assured him she was 100% human.

“And – oh, is that for me? Hank that was a joke, but you know I’ll never say no to good wine.” She takes the bottle from him and tucks it into her bag, along with the drink tray. She sits beside them on the bench, clutching her own mug of probably spiked coffee.

“Thank you for meeting us out here, by the way,” Hank offers, hugging her close in thanks.

Candice returns the embrace, and he can feel her smiling over his shoulder at Marc. “Of course, of course. I know we probably can’t meet in the office although why you won’t allow me in your house is a conversation for another time.”

Hank goes to say something and she holds up her hand. He closes his mouth, and hears Marc’s low chuckle behind him as amusement filters over the bond.

“But, I digress. Now,” she says, looking up at the both of them through her pink rimmed glasses. “You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Marc looks at Hank, and Hank returns the gaze. They’d gone over this before they’d left the house, but here, in person, it’s a bit more difficult than they had anticipated.

Candice patiently watches them, slowly nursing her coffee.

Hank nods to Marc, bolstering his confidence. “We’ve been dating for over a year,” Marc says, looking up to meet Candice’s gaze.

She blinks, then excitedly beams at them. “Congratulations you two! Oh my gosh this is so exciting!” Candice turns her gaze on Hank. “How on Earth did you manage to land this one?” she asks, nodding to Marc.

Hank blushes, but shrugs. “I honestly have no idea.”

He can feel Marc’s shyness, but also feels overwhelming love. He responds in kind, reaching up to cup Marc’s cheek. “He’s honestly too good for me.”

“Hank,” Marc mumbles, his blush visible even in just the streetlamp light.

“Oh, let the man be proud of you, God knows he talks about you enough,” Candice cajoles. “But in all seriousness, I am so happy for you two! If there’s anything I can do, just let me know, okay?”

“Of course we will. Thanks, Candice.” The relief rolling off of Marc in waves, of finally having someone not all-knowing and not related by blood knowing, and finally being able to be a little bit more himself, warms Hank almost enough to fight off January’s chill.

Candice smiles back warmly at them, before heaving a sigh. Back to business it is.

“Now; let’s talk about this new legal bullshit. You remember the drama back in October when the League first proposed accounting for non-humans as, essentially, a liability for the sport. The NHLPA then turned around and rightly said that you guys were being unfairly profiled if this policy were to pass. None of this is new, correct?”

They nod, and she continues.

“Okay. With this new agreement, the NHL is willing to settle down on most other problems – the division of HRR, the gradual decrease in pay with compensation, updated equipment including possibly mandating visors and changes to goalie gear.” She gives pointed looks to first Marc, then Hank, as she lists the changes. “But only, and this is key; only if the NHLPA stops trying to get them to drop the non-human disclosure policy changes.”

“So…all of this is going to go away, we’ll get our season, if we allow them to profile us?” Hank asks, raising an eyebrow.

Candice takes a sip of her coffee, but raises her brow and shrugs in a way that indicates he hit the nail on the head.

“Fucking great.”

“What exactly is their argument?” Marc pipes up. “The NHLPA, what is their argument for not including it. Like, their exact language.”

“Ummmm…” Candice holds her coffee out for Hank to hold. The moment she has free hands, she digs around in her bag, pulling out a manila folder, beaten up at the edges. She flips through a few sets of paper clipped pages, before stopping at a document with “confidential” written diagonally through the text. She traces her nail over the words until she reaches the right section. “‘ _The NHLPA cites the NHL’s movement to promote specific punishment against non-humans in non-human/human interactions on the ice as unfair and species-biased._ _The 1995 CBA set the precedent for unequivocal equality between non-human and human players. This biased proposal stands in the way…_ ’ And then a whole bunch of copied stuff from the previous CBA about how they have the non-disclosure policy to protect the League, so, all the stuff that tells you guys to stay human when representing your teams,” she reads.

She then looks up, meeting Marc’s gaze as she takes her coffee back from Hank. “Why do you ask?”

Hank only slightly laments the fact that they cannot, in effect, read each other’s minds nearly every day, but especially now. The budding hope weaving through the bond is weakened slightly by a chain of uncertainty. Hank reaches over, putting his gloved hand on Marc’s thigh and squeezing encouragingly.

“What’re you thinking, älskling?” he murmurs. He hears Candice’s small coo, but doesn’t let that deter him.

Marc gives him a small smile, but then presses onward. “What if they change their argument to say that it would require disclosure of the types of non-humans on every team?”

Candice furrows her brows, intense curiosity written on every line of her face. “Go on…”

“Well, how are the refs going to know how to make these biased calls if they don’t tell them who’s non-human in the first place? The only people who have that information, league wide, are the owners and the offices that are meant to deal with players like us. The refs don’t know, and I don’t think the coaches are sharing notes, unless a player has passed through their club before.”

Candice’s eyes widen, her lips slightly parted. She sits there, blinking in stunned silence.

Marc’s uncertainty doubles over the bond, and Hank instinctively turns to comfort him, but before he can say anything, Candice is closing the folder and getting a pen out to write notes on the back cover.

As soon as her pen is uncapped, she looks back up at Marc. She has that look of fire in her eyes that Hank has only seen when she knows she has her opposition backed into a corner. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

“Say everything you just said again.”

* * *

The news officially breaks around 4:30 in the morning – only three hours after they’d left Candice in the park.

“She works so fast,” Marc marvels, looking at the headlines popping up on his phone.

Hank looks over at him from where he’s checking the news on his own laptop. “She’s the best,” he agrees. He reaches up to muss at Marc’s hair, and Marc leans into the touch, even though he’s groaning at the mess.

“Why you do this?”

“Because you’re so fucking smart and you helped push this to where it is now. I’m sure there were other people involved but I’m going to be inordinately proud of you for the time being and you’re just going to have to deal with that,” Hank replies.

Marc blushes at the praise, but his own pride and confidence lights up the bond with bold blues and yellows.

* * *

**NHL Lockout Over After 113 Days; Owners, Players Tentatively Agree On New CBA** Jan 6, 2013

As of early Sunday morning, the two sides have agreed to a framework but still need to document the new deal prior to ratifying it. The length of the schedule and amount of games to be played this season have yet to be determined.

Here are some of the reported items of the new CBA:

*The length of the new CBA will be for 10 years with a mutual opt-out after eight years

*Revenue sharing was set at $200 million with a $60 million growth fund

*Free agents can sign maximum contracts of eight years with the team they had their previous contract with; seven years with a new team

*The maximum variance between annual salary on any contract is set at 35 percent

*The salary cap in year two of the deal will be $64.3 million

*Each team will be permitted two compliance buyouts prior to the 2013-2014 season that will not count against the salary cap and will come out of the players’ share of hockey-related revenue

*All 14 teams that do not qualify for the postseason will be eligible for the first overall pick in the NHL Draft as part of the draft lottery system

*Player participation in the 2014 Olympic games in Sochi will be determined independently of the CBA

*Referees will not have access to the Non-Human Player Registry, effectively muting the ability for skewed on ice calls

*Fines against non-human players can, at max, be 25 percent more than the baseline fines for a human player for the same offence

According to Darren Dreger of TSN, training camps could begin later this week but will be determined based upon the ratification of the new deal. The lockout’s over!

* * *

**Henrik Lundqvist  
** @HLundqvist30  
The past is the past…lets move forward and start enjoying the best game on the planet!! Hockey is back and I love it!!!  
6:31am – 6 Jan 2013

* * *

“Niiice.”

“What?”

“You tweet like an old man.”

“Well this old man just got invited to play guitar on Jimmy Fallon, so bite me.”

“Isn’t that your role in this relationship?”

“…Shut up Marc.”

* * *

His appearance on Jimmy Fallon goes fantastically. He snaps a selfie with the guitar and texts it to Marc, with the caption,  _ You know my birthday’s coming up… _

Marc responds with a selfie of him wearing one of Hank’s long sleeve “Rangers Hockey” shirts that he’d commandeered a few weeks back. He’d all but turned it into a sleep shirt, working the collar to be looser and looser until it hung off one shoulder, exposing the fading bruise from Hank’s drink last night. He has a soft smile on his face, and an eyebrow raised.  _ You also know our anniversary is coming up before that, right? _

Hank sends back a series of heart eyes, completely not answering the question. He can feel Marc’s amused confusion over the bond, and he just rubs his chest a bit as he sends wave after wave of love in return.

* * *

The training camps open up on Marc’s birthday. Getting back into the flow of things is both the easiest and hardest thing that Hank’s ever done. The interviews post-workouts never end, and for once, he looks forward to the media circus.

Watching Carl mush a towel full of shaving cream into Marc’s face in celebration of his birthday is really the official beginning of the season.

* * *

They go on to lose their first two games of the shortened season, first to Boston, then to Pittsburgh. Neither are shutouts, at least. But both games are riddled with penalties, and in the end, both losses come down on Hank’s shoulders.

His frustration rebounds through the bond, Marc echoing the sentiment. That the losses came two days in a row only makes the sensation worse.

Three days later, they get their first win of the shortened season, against Boston. Boyle finds himself in the penalty box for fighting, Marc gets an assist, and the bond is alight with more than enough happiness for the both of them.

Wins and losses pass by, and by their second anniversary, the Rangers sit comfortably at a 6-5-0 season. By Hank’s birthday, their record is 9-8-2.

Their next game is against the Sabres with their record of 9-12-1. Needless to say, they take the win.

Then, they’re facing the Flyers.

* * *

It’s a home game, and the Garden is alive. The first period leaves the teams tied, but Hank’s feeling good. Sure, they’re taking stupid penalties, but Cally’s on fire, and he can feel the determination burning within Marc. He can read it on his teammates faces, he can feel it in the air.

It’s going to be a good game.

The second period passes. No one scores and the Flyers take the only penalty of that 20-minute segment.

Less than three minutes into the third, Nash puts the Rangers up at a 3-2 lead. The fans take to their feet, screaming and chanting, still high off the win from two days prior. It becomes much louder when they show the replay, a real beauty of a shot.

They start over again at center ice but they lose the faceoff, the Flyers letting it loose toward the goal. Hank makes the save, but when it becomes rapidly apparent he has no one to safely leave the puck to, he smothers it. The refs blow the whistle, and he gets up and gives the puck to the ref to start a faceoff in their zone, to Hank’s right.

Marc takes his place to the right of Nash, closer to Hank than the winger. The puck drops, the Flyers win the faceoff, and it gets sent back to Timonen. Marc comes over to stand in front of the goal, letting his teammates take over the farther positions.

Timonen winds up and lets a shot loose. After that, Henrik finds himself aware of three things at once.

One; the sweet smell of Marc’s blood spilling out onto the ice, shockingly out of place.

Two; excruciating, burning pain twisting sharply in his chest and on the right side of his face.

Three; the screaming was not just the fans, not just Marc writhing in pain, but also himself.

Then the world went white.

* * *

The first time he wakes up, his senses are crossed and blurred. His mouth feels dry, and he hisses softly in discomfort.

“Is he back yet?” A soft voice with a familiar accent – Hags maybe?

“No, not yet.” A strange voice, an unfamiliar scent. He bares his teeth, hissing again in the way a cornered animal does. Though his eyes are open, he can’t see more beyond blurred colors and shapes. The light hurts, and the panic rises in his chest.

“I’d hit him again with the morphine, doctor.” That voice is so calm but how can they be calm when  _ nothing is right? _

“Of course.” The stranger approaches again, and Hank tries to move away, tries to gather himself, but he meets resistance. Have his limbs always been this heavy? Or is he actually tied down?

The panic continues to rise, now sitting in his throat, and he instinctively reaches out for Marc through the bond, but he feels nothing. The bond extends out into nothingness.

The morphine pulls him further away from the space where Marc should be, no matter how hard he fights.

Then, darkness.

* * *

The second time he wakes up with a jolt of panic that wasn’t his own. Panic and distress that doesn’t calm with Hank’s pseudo awareness. His eyes fly open as his back arches sharply off the bed, his breath coming in short, gasping pants. He feels trapped, and he realizes that he is , in fact, strapped down to the bed.

The panic wells up within him, and he tries to get himself free. There’s hands that pin him down, strong in the way all hockey players are, and Hags’ face comes into view.

Hank looks up at him with wild desperation, his throat too dry to speak with any emphasis. “Marc-need-själsfrände-mine-need-where- _ Marc. _ ” It’s all one long desperate whisper, and he can’t begin to soothe the panic when he feels it with every fiber of his being.

Carl says something in response, but the blood is rushing in his ears and he can’t hear him clearly. Every part of him, mental and sensory, is reaching out for Marc, needing to find him. He picks up the smell of Hags, the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the cotton of the sheets he rests  on, and the familiar sweet smell of Marc’s blood.

Marc isn’t near him, is bleeding or has bled, and Hank  can’t get to him.

But as soon as the panic started, his first contact with Marc in who knew how long, it ends, leaving Hank alone with his own fears. The abrupt departure draws a sob out of him, and he wants nothing more than to die.

* * *

The third time he wakes up is different from the other two. This time, it’s of his own accord. And this time, he can see just fine.

The white ceiling tiles that greet him, though, don’t seem inclined to share any answers with him. Slowly, the memories of the past two awakenings come back to him. The panic, the fear, the disorienting mix of senses –

_ Marc. _

He sits up fully this time, ready to fight off bonds that are no longer there. Looking down, only a light sheet and wool blanket cover his lower half. He’s in a white t-shirt and boxers, though he doesn’t remember changing after the game.

Unbidden, the wet, solid crunch of the puck hitting Marc’s face comes back to the surface, and he almost wants to throw up. He puts his head in his hands, trying to steady his breathing. But as he breathes, he realizes the smell of Marc’s blood is even thicker here than it had been before. Stronger, like he’s closer to the source.

Slowly, he raises his head, looking over to his left. In another hospital bed, Marc lays on his back, a bandage taped over his right eye. An IV disappears into the back of his hand, and he’s breathing steadily on his own power.

Seeing Marc, whole and alive, floods Henrik with a relief so strong he has to lay back down again.

He forces himself to think back to the game, back to watching Marc take a puck to the face right in front of him and being helpless to stop it. He remembers the sound of impact, of Marc’s screams, and then…

Footsteps echoing in the hallway interrupt his line of thought. He turns his attention to the door, hoping to see a familiar face.

It’s a random nurse, not one Hank remembers smelling or seeing before. She comes in and goes straight to Marc’s bed, the one closer to the door. A low growl comes from deep in Hank’s chest, a warning sign if anything else, telling her to back off.

She glances at him briefly, before doing a double take. Upon realizing he’s awake, she turns and walks briskly out of the room.

“You told me to get you when he woke up of his own accord. I can assure you, he’s damn well awake now,” she says over her shoulder as she reenters the room a few seconds later.

Hags, Candice, and Gabriella follow the nurse in. Carl, he knew was there. Candice and Gabriella, however, are  surprises.

Hank sits up, looking in confusion as his teammate, agent, and sister come to stand at the foot and side of his bed. None of them get between him and Marc, and at this, Hank feels a kind of selfish affirmation. They know not to get between him and what’s his.

The possessive thought doesn’t surprise him, but that amount of viciousness felt against his family and friends was completely unwarranted. “…What happened?” he asks softly, looking up at the trio.

“It was in the third period of the game against Philly,” Hags begins, his voice soft. Hank turns his attention to the forward. Carl looks haunted, and exhausted, and almost fearful. Hank prays that fear isn’t because of him.

“You’d just stopped a shot from Talbot so we had a faceoff in our zone. They won the faceoff, brought the puck back to Timonen. He took a shot and the puck was redirected up off Voracek’s stick. Marc got hit.” He can tell the explanation is hoping to draw him back to his memories, to recall the game, but all Hank can remember is the pain of that moment. He winces, slightly, bringing his hand up to his eye.

“What happened next?”

“Marc went down, he was writhing on the ice. And you…” He trails off, not knowing what to say. He casts a pleading look at Candice to step in.

She takes a breath, and then turns to Hank. “To put it nicely, you fucking lost it. You hit the ice just as Marc had, but the puck hadn’t gotten to you, so people didn’t know if you had gotten a stick in your mask or what. Then when the trainer tried to touch you, you  _ growled  _ at him and pushed him off. Marc was able to skate off the ice and you followed, and if anyone tried to stop you, you snapped at them too.”

“The trainers took him to their room but they needed to check for broken bones, and he was starting to lose consciousness, so they called an ambulance and loaded him up into it. Somehow you got in there and then I don’t know what happened, the accounts are unclear, but next thing I know, I’m getting a call that my client has been sedated and is currently staying in the hospital. They thought you were suffering from some kind of latent trauma, or something.”

“I was the one that managed to convince you to change, though why you were listening to me I still don’t know,” Hags adds. “Because you were about to just walk out of the Garden with all your gear on. I drove you here, and you were quiet, but I wasn’t expecting you to just…run in here, and you knew where you were going which was the weirdest part. I mean, Christ, Hank…What happened?”

This is the first time that Henrik is hearing any of this, and it doesn’t feel good at all. The amount of apologies he would have to make and the problems of having a lawsuit brought down against him in case he accidentally revealed what he was in the process was too much to think about right now. “I…I was tied down,” is what comes out instead. “Earlier…why?”

“You had to be sedated and removed from the OR. They were trying to stitch up the cuts and make sure that the fractures would heal the way they needed to. I don’t know if you remember this but you woke up a few times and each time tried to make your way back to Marc. So they tied you down.”

Candice grumbles something under her breath, but her aggression doesn’t seem to be at Hank just yet.

The only person who hadn’t yet spoken was Gabriella. The vampire turns to look at his older sister, not knowing what he’ll find there.

She has tear tracks down her face, but now she exudes a calm, stoic air about her. “Henrik,” she begins, and oh Hank knows he’s in for it now, “why didn’t you tell me that you had bonded?”

“It happened after you’d left Åre, in September. I just didn’t think to mention it.”

“So you bond with the only person that you’d brought home and just didn’t think to tell neither me nor Joel, nor your agent, nor, I’m assuming, your coaches?”

Hank was wrong to mistake her stoicism for calm. She was beyond irate.

“No, Gabriella. We did tell Candice that we were together but not about the bond.”

“Why the hell not!”

“Because it’s not just my decision to tell people something that got Marc kicked out of his own house for nearly four months,  _ Gabriella!  _ He’s only just come to terms with it himself – not the bond, he had full knowledge of what that was.”

“Then he was coming to terms with what?”

“The fact that he’s not straight, for one. That I’m a vampire and that his family doesn’t like that, for another. The fact that it could have an effect on our hockey, in the way that the lockout was already trying to get us written down as liabilities to our team. Adding homosexuality does not make us look favorable to  _ anyone.  _ Not in a sport like this. Not in a world like this.”

Gabriella clenches her jaw but says nothing more, instead turning and taking her leave. This leaves Carl and Candice standing there, each looking more than a little bit uncomfortable. Hank sighs and looks down at his hands.

“Candice?”

“Yeah, Hank?”

“Can you take a statement?”

“For the public?”

“No, just for my teammates. And coaches.” He looks up at Hags then, blue eyes pleading. “Please, Hags…anything that you heard just now can’t leave this room. Not unless he gives the okay…promise me?”

Hags nods earnestly. “No, yeah, of course Hank. Nothing leaves this room.” Then he pauses and looks over at Marc’s still sleeping form. “Just, uh…” He shuffles his feet a bit before continuing.

“If he wants anyone to talk to about this stuff, just let him know he can always talk to me, okay?” His cheeks are tinged with a light pink, but the fear and haunted look had more or less faded from his eyes.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Hank murmurs, softening his gaze a bit. “Truly. Thank you.”

Hags nods at him once more, before taking his leave as well. Candice gently clears her throat from besides him, her pen and pad at the ready. “If you still want to give a statement…”

“Yeah, yes. Um. Start with, ‘I sincerely apologize for my actions and the repercussions that my actions might have against this team. It was never my intention to put you in the position that you may find yourselves in now. Moving forward,…’”

* * *

Hank finds out he isn’t allowed to walk the halls without a security guard or Candice at his side. He tries not to think about how much it hurts to be caged in this room like an animal, but at least he’s with Marc.

Marc, who he finds, has been drugged almost to the point of a medically induced coma, because when he was too awake, Hank was a threat to anyone who entered the room. Now that Hank was awake and rational, they were letting the drugs filter out of Marc’s system.

Which, since his metabolism was hardier and faster than regular humans’, meant he would be waking up by tomorrow.

So Hank paces the room, waiting for Marc to awaken, the sweet smell of his blood in the air, and hoping he hadn’t done anything that couldn’t be undone.

* * *

At around three in the morning, Marc wakes up. The panic flares, hot and sudden in Hank’s chest, and he gets out of his bed and crosses the short distance to Marc’s. He has to come around to be on Marc’s left side so he can actually see him. The bandage was recently changed, but Hank knows how quickly it fills with blood.

Marc reaches up with a shaky hand to cup Hank’s cheek, and the vampire leans into the embrace, holding Marc’s jaw gingerly, like he would shatter with the wrong movement. “Are you really here?” Marc whispers.

His voice, however weak it was, felt like a soothing balm to Hank’s raw and anxious nerves. Finally, he begins to feel something within him settling down.

“Yes, älskling. I’m here. I’m not leaving, not again.”

“Woke up…couldn’t feel you, couldn’t find you…” The pain comes back, but it’s pain at memories, rather than current circumstances.

Hank leans down, resting his forehead against Marc’s as he shushes him. “I know, my love, I know. My själsfrände, my world, my everything. I’m not leaving, I promise. I couldn’t feel you either and it hurt so much…but I won’t leave, not again.”

“Promise?”

“I swear to it.”

Marc closes his eye and takes a shaky, steadying breath. He moves his hand up to bury his fingers in Hank’s hair, holding him close. Though his grip is weak, from the drugs and exhaustion in his body, Hank feels it like a veritable chain holding him down.

He wouldn’t dare to remove it.

* * *

Marc gets cleared to return home the next day. The good news is that his eye is expected to make a solid recovery. He doesn’t require surgery (other than stitching it up), and he should have vision returning relatively quickly.

The bad news is that Hank is still expected to go to practice, despite the fact that Marc cannot leave. He’s allowed to take Marc home, but he knows he has to face the music. They have a game against the Islanders tonight, but he, understandably, won’t be playing.

It doesn’t stop Totorella from calling him into his office.

He feels distinctly like a chastised child being called into his father’s study. Taking a seat in front of his coach, he isn’t sure what to say.

Luckily, he doesn’t need to.

“Henrik,” John begins. “I assume Marc is okay if you’re sitting here.”

Hank mutely nods.

“Good, that’s good. He, at least, will be able to start up again in the upcoming weeks.  _ You, _ on the other hand, have a lot to answer for. Changes that affect the rest of the team, including whatever psychotic break you seemed to have, need to be run through me. And if you’re going to try and attack your teammates whenever they bleed, then hockey is, quite frankly, not the sport for you.”

Hank shakes his head in disagreement. “I wasn’t attacking him, I was trying to get close to him. He’s my…”

“Favorite drink?”

“My bonded,” Hank answers flatly, bristling at the accusation that Marc was just a source of food to him. “He was in pain and I was trying to stop it.”

“By attacking anyone that got in your way?” John accuses.

“I don’t know, John, I’ve never been bonded before!” Hank snaps.

John sits back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “So you experimented with some kind of, what, vampire magic, so when Marc gets hurt, you lose your mind?”

Hank bites back the words that want to come forth because, to be honest, John isn’t worth it right now. He can’t be the one to expose them both to an unforgiving ear. So he tries to calm himself, before looking back up at his coach. “Candice has already shared my statement with the team. No one except for Marc got hurt, and that was not because of any of my actions. I understand that I may have violated the non-human disclosure clause in my contract, and I’m willing to take the punishment that comes from that. But I don’t think I need to explain my private life to you aside from saying that it shouldn’t impact the team dynamic too much.”

John’s cold eyes meet his gaze, no sympathy in sight. “Aside from you trying to attack anyone who got in your way. That kind of savagery isn’t welcome here, Hank, especially not from a monster like you.”

“Carl Hagelin didn’t seem to sustain any injuries, and he was with me in the hospital. Candice, my agent, was with me in the hospital, and she was fine. And that was after they’d decided to remove the ties on me,” Hank weakly counters.

“Regardless. Three game suspension, but I expect you here at practice. If you so much as cause a whisper of discontent, that time goes up. Understand?”

Hank nods, looking down.

“Good. You’re excused.”

He takes his leave, his fingers absently rubbing at his chest.

* * *

His first practice back goes by okay. Hags, Boyle, and Girardi are the only ones who really treat him no differently than before. Cally tries, and Stepan makes it apparent that he still thinks of him the same way, but the rest are pretty quiet around him. There’s no dirty looks or fear, just a general nervousness in the air.

He understands that much.

He gives closed mouth smiles, when he has an occasion to smile at all.

* * *

Sleeping at night is difficult. If not for the near nightmare fuel that was his experience in the hospital, then for the fact that he needed to keep waking up every few hours to gently clean Marc’s eye. The bleeding had begun to taper off, the stitches still holding, and the swelling was beginning to go down. Marc still couldn’t really see out of that eye, but got around the house just fine.

One morning, Hank wakes up with a bolt of fear and confusion that does not belong to him. The bed beside him is empty, but he can feel Marc close by, in the ensuite. He wastes no time getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom. 

Marc stands, leaning over the sink, with black droplets spotted along the marble counter. His right hand covers his eye, but what looks like black ink - thick and swirling - dribbles through his fingers, over the back of his hand and down his forearm. It’s like when the puck first hit him, but instead of red, it’s black. 

Hank rushes to Marc’s side, settling a hand on his lower back and his other on Marc’s elbow. He doesn’t want to pull his hand away from his eye, in case he’s hurting him more, but he can’t be hands off about this. Upon closer inspection, he notices that the liquid - which smells like how Marc tastes - isn’t solid black. It has swirls of purple and blue in it, visible only when it catches the light, with little white specks here and there that make it look kind of like space.

“What happened?” 

“I woke up,” Marc says softly. His voice is strained, but Hank’s not feeling any kind of pain from Marc, only emotional turmoil. “And I wanted to change the bandages. So I came in here to do that and…” 

“And what?” Hank asks. He can’t bear to not have the information, but Marc’s done talking. He drops his hand to the countertop, leaving a black smear down his cheek and the edge of the sink. Marc blinks, and more of the liquid dribbles slowly out, but when he looks at Hank, he can see what happened.

Hank hasn’t seen Marc’s eye since the injury. He was expecting blood or bruising, but instead what he got was an eye completely obscured by the universe. It was beautiful, in a haunting, morbid kind of way. 

“The nurse warned me that this might happen,” Marc whispers, reaching up to swipe away some of the liquid running down his cheek. Hank tears his gaze away from the billions of stars trapped in Marc’s eye to look into his good one, the familiar russet coloration easing his anxiety. 

“Did they say what it was?” 

“It’s my magic.” 

Hank feels the world stop spinning. “Wait, what?” 

“It’s not that I’m not going to be able to turn into anything ever again, but it’s my...basically it’s my body trying to heal itself and the blood way didn’t work so it’s trying the magic way, but it’s not healed all the way yet to let the magic do it’s thing so the excess just kinda...does this,” he helplessly explains, gesturing at his eye with blackened fingers. “It’s not something I can help. It just...it has to pass.” 

Hank doesn’t know what to do. Marc’s not in pain, but instincts urge him to protect, to reassure, to shelter. He can’t do that, standing in their bathroom, but the ink has to dry before he can even think about bringing him into the bedroom. He reaches over and turns the tap on, before guiding Marc’s blackened hand under the water. As he bathes Marc’s hand, then forearm, then gently wipes away at his cheek, he sends a constant stream of those protective instincts over their bond. 

Marc closes his eyes, fair lashes black and clumped together on his right eye, and rests his forehead against Hank’s shoulder, making a noise equal parts frustration and despair. Hank shushes him, still trying to comfort him, even as he watches the universe swirl down the drain.

* * *

The morning Marc wakes up and is able to see movement is the same morning that the Rangers leave town to take on the Caps.

Hank’s still not playing, but they go on to win 4-1. It’s a bittersweet victory, being unable to share it with Marc. The pride he feels over the bond, though, eclipses that.

* * *

The night before their game against the Sabres, there’s a knock on Hank’s door. He hadn’t been sleeping well to begin with, and this distraction – Cally, if the smell was any indication – would be more than welcome.

He hoped.

When he opens the door, he’s proved right. Ryan stands before him, just in sweats and a t-shirt, seeming a bit nervous, but with a kind of resolve. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure – want to come in?” Hank asks, moving to the side to extend the invitation.

Ryan hesitates for a moment, before walking in. He leans against the desk, and Hank walks back over to his bed, sitting cross-legged at the end. “What’s this about?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, after everything that happened, with Marc and all.” Ryan’s words are genuine, but he seems tired as well. “I know…John probably ripped you a new one when you went to see him, and that sucks. But, uh, you know the guys here…they’re good guys. And if you had, you know, any concerns or whatever, that you could tell me and I’d see what I could do, yeah?”

This is a captain’s duty, Hank knows. But he hopes that after all this time, he might be able to find someone on his side on the team. “Yeah, to say the least, he wasn’t the happiest with me. And I just…” He looks up at Ryan, every bit of exhaustion visible on his face. “I know people can’t unlearn new information, or whatever they’re speculating. But it’s…it’s always been this way. I’ve been a vampire for almost 300 years now, and I’ve never had an accident like that.”

“What actually happened, Hank?”

“It wasn’t like whatever people are speculating, like I was trying to kill him or whatever. He was in a lot of pain and…I guess I was acting partly out of trying to protect myself, but also wanting to make him feel better. When you’re bonded to someone it’s kind of like an emotional link? Like, I can feel him right now, I know he’s calm and more than likely half asleep right now,” he explains, putting a hand over his own heart. “But it’s not like I can read his mind, or something. We can’t talk or anything.”

Ryan had been listening intently to the conversation, nodding his head in understanding. “I’m not gonna bullshit you, it’s kinda really weird. But I meant it. If anyone’s giving you shit or whatever, you can tell me. You’re still the Henke we know and love, yeah?”

Hank smiles, with teeth this time. He freezes when Ryan squints a bit and leans in, trying to catch a glimpse.

“Um…?”

“Oh, uh, sorry. Just wanted to…like, see?” It comes out like a question, and Hank figures he can indulge in this curiosity.

He opens his mouth, his fangs fully visible now. Since he’s not about to feed, they’re not as exaggerated, but they’re definitely present. (Though, since he hasn’t eaten in eight days, they are a bit longer than usual.)

Ryan whistles softly, raising his eyebrows. “Damn. Are they always like that?”

“I mean, I always have them, but if I’m about to drink then they get longer, more pointed.” He shrugs running his tongue over his teeth.

“Hmmm. Interesting.” Ryan leans back to the table edge. “Well, I trust you, for what that’s worth.”

“Yeah, no, yeah thank you for checking in. It, uh…means a lot.”

They sit in silence for a minute, before Hank murmurs, “I’ve got one question for you, Cally.”

“Yeah, lay it on me, man.”

“What’s worse for them; the vampire thing or the gay thing?” he asks softly lifting his head. “Or am I a monster either way?”

Ryan sighs and walks towards him, taking a seat on the bed besides him. “Honestly, for some it’s probably a mix of both. Some could probably forgive one or the other. And some won’t care either way.” He looks at Hank with a slight, “what can you do” shrug.

“It’s not like I can help either of those things, I just…wanted to know,” Hank murmurs. He looks back down at his hands, and wishes more than anything that he’d be allowed to earn his place back on the team, but knowing that things probably couldn’t be the same.

Cally puts a hand on his back, gently rubbing between his shoulder blades. Hank leans into it, resting his head on Cally’s shoulder.

“Just give ‘em time, Hank. That’s all you can do,” Ryan murmurs.

Hank doesn’t say anything, just lets his captain comfort him.

* * *

They lose against the Sabres.

Hank’s irritable in ways that have nothing to do with his performance on the ice and everything to do with fatigue and hunger. But he controls it, when he catches Tortorella glaring at him from across the plane.

* * *

They go on to lose against both Winnipeg and Pittsburgh.

Sidney tries to intercept him as he’s leaving the locker room, but he’s prevented from doing so by Geno, who levels Henrik with a murderous stare.

Hank bares his teeth, but doesn’t instigate further.

He ignores the calls on his phone.

* * *

When he drags himself through the door to his house, he thinks he can finally rest. The constant field trips are getting exhausting, even though they only have three days before they’re back on a plane.

It’s the middle of the night, the lights down low. He drops his bags by the front door and makes his way to his bedroom, toeing off his shoes and loosening his tie as he goes. His fingers shake with the need to rest, but lately it’s become impossible to sleep through the night. Hunger kept him awake, tossing and turning. He knew he could feed from someone else, he knew that Marc would understand, but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. He doesn’t want to come home smelling like someone else, drinking someone else’s blood. It’s not faithful and he wasn’t being purely romantic when he told Marc he had ruined him for anyone else; everyone else’s scent paled in comparison to Marc’s. There was no allure anymore.

He comes to a stop in the bedroom door, and looks down at the figure resting in the bed. Marc hadn’t yet been cleared for any sort of exercise, and with the injury sustained, the idea of shifting seemed counterintuitive to the healing process. He was trapped, being unable to drive or fly or run anywhere, and since Hank had driven him back to the vampire’s house instead of his own apartment, he truly was isolated.

Then again, the relative quiet of a suburb was possibly better for a head injury such as this than a light and sound filled city apartment.

Now, Marc rests in the bed, curled up on Hank’s side. He’s wearing that same warm up shirt that he’d stolen a few months back, and Hank slips in behind him. Marc shifts slightly, reacting to the bed’s movement and the sudden warmth at his back.

“Mmmh…Henke?” Marc asks, only slightly awake.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Hank throws an arm over Marc’s side, burrowing closer. He smells so sweet, so tempting, and Hank forces himself to pull away.

Marc rolls over now, looking at him with a kind of sleepy confusion. “Everything okay?” He’s not talking about hockey, but Hank answers it as if he is.

“Not really, but I’ll get better. John’s certainly putting me through my paces, so, I’ll get back to where I should be,” Hank answers, staring up at the ceiling.

“That’s…good,” Marc says slowly. “But I wasn’t asking about your game play.”

“Everything’s fine, Marc,” Hank replies in a clipped tone.

Marc sits up and looks down at where Hank is laying. Hank can feel the frustration and shock in the bond. “Okay, I get that I’m not exactly in playing shape, but that doesn’t mean that the losses don’t suck for me too. So if this is coming from that, you need to calm down or something, I dunno. But don’t take your frustration out on me, I’m not going to put up with that.”

“This isn’t about the games, but thank you for pointing out how stellar our record has been lately.” Hank goes to get up from the bed, but Marc reaches out and grabs ahold of his wrist. Normally, that would be enough to stop him. Normally, Hank would listen to his touch. But now, it provides too much temptation, and he twists out of Marc’s grip, standing up with his back to him.

Behind him, Marc scoffs. “Jesus, can you  _ hear  _ yourself right now? Like, you haven’t acted this pissy since you conveniently forgot to feed for four days because you were worried about hurting me or something.”

Hank winces at the memory. By now, it had been nearly double that time in length, and during the season he needed to have fed at least twice during that break.

It doesn’t take Marc long to put it together.

“…Oh. My fucking God. Henrik. Have you not eaten in  _ eleven days _ ?”

“…”

“Henrik what the hell –”

“I didn’t want to hurt you –”

“– did I say about making sure you were fed –”

“– and you were bleeding so much already –”

“– during the season, and you know that you can’t –”

“– I wasn’t about to put you back in the hospital.”

“You never take that much to begin with –”

“I’m not going to risk that.”

Marc cuts himself off and fixes him with a glare that is almost too powerful for the one eye that still works. Hank falls silent, but meets his gaze evenly.

“Hank. You’ve taken care of me since I got hurt, you took me in when shit hit the fan with my family; the least I can do is let you feed from me. I’m not bleeding profusely, my eye is slowly healing, and now  _ you’re  _ the one in pain.” The glare softens, becoming more pleading. “Let me take care of you. Even if this is all I can do.”

The fight leaves Hank’s body. His shoulders drop and he wants so badly to just take Marc up on his offer, but he’s hurting, and the drugs in his system wouldn’t be as effective if he drank from him, and –

“Henke. Please,” Marc murmurs.

Hank crawls back into bed, and nosing his way up to Marc’s neck. His pulse beats strong and steady under the surface of his skin, though the scent is a bit tainted from the pain medication. His fangs sharpen either way, anticipating food for the first time in days.

Marc reaches up and threads his fingers through Hank’s hair, guiding him back down. Just like the first time, just like at the hospital, Hank listens, and lowers his mouth to Marc’s skin. He kisses the freckled juncture there, before biting in, the sweet flavor covering his tongue and slicking his throat.

He takes three long pulls, swallowing greedily, before forcing himself to calm his drinking. Marc coerces him into his lap, his fingers gently stroking along his scalp. The bond sends little waves of insistent calm over him, lapping at him like shallow ripples. Gradually, his own desperation settles down, and he feels full enough to pull back, softly licking at the wound.

When he pulls back, Marc guides him up to look him in the eyes. His left eye is rimmed with red, his pupil dilated until almost the iris was eclipsed. Stitches sneak down his cheek, resting at his bone. They look at each other for a moment, just the sound of their breaths echoing between them.

“I need you to trust me, Hank,” he finally whispers. “I need you to take care of yourself. You already do so much for me…so please, love, let me take care of you.”

Hank blinks, sending tears rolling down his cheeks. “I do trust you, älskling. I just don’t trust myself.”

“ _ I _ trust you.”

The bond lights up with disbelief and love, so much love, flowing and ebbing between the two of them. The vampire presses a soft kiss to the shapeshifter’s lips, gently licking into his mouth.

They don’t need words, anymore.

* * *

They win the next two games, back to back. Then a loss against the Panthers, a shootout loss against the Caps, and then they’re facing the Flyers once again.

This time is an away game, at Wells Fargo, and they  _ demolish  _ them.

It’s a personal victory for every Blueshirt that night.

* * *

Eventually it becomes apparent who has come to terms with what Hank is and who has not. He tries not to let it get to him, but there are dirty looks and muttered, “I thought vampires were supposed to be  _ fast _ ,” comments whenever he lets in a shot.

At least Martin doesn’t seem fazed, but that could just be because goalies needed to stick together.

* * *

Week by week Marc’s sight gets better, and eventually he’s cleared for dry land exercise with the team. Hank almost doesn’t want him to go, not knowing how the team is going to handle seeing the two of them together. He’d been talking to Marc about the reactions of their teammates, and for now, they know they have their captain and some of their closer friends on their side.

_ Will it be enough, _ Hank wonders as he pulls up to the facility.

Marc looks over at him, one eye still revealing the universe, but now concentrated within his iris, much less noticeable than before. Hank can feel his apprehension, and sends him some confidence in place. “Boyle and Giardi are still on our side. If anything, they’ll just be happy to see you,” he murmurs gently. “And go in, check with the trainers, see what they want to put you through.”

“You think I’m ready?” Marc asks softly. He’d heard the stories from Hank about what the boys were thinking, but he wasn’t sure.

Hank gives him a wan smile. “As ready as you can be, now that everyone knows I’m not human.” He’d already told him that he’d told Cally, and that Hags was there with him in the hospital, so he was privy to all of the conversations.

“And they don’t know any specifics, right? About us?”

“No, just that I’m not human. Nothing about what I am or what my relationship is with you or that you are also anything but human. Your secret’s safe.” Hank turns the car off. “Come on, älskling. Everything will be fine.”

They get out and head inside.

Marc takes a left where Hank continues on straight, one heading to the trainers, the other to the locker room.

* * *

The good news is that no one seemed willing to harass a still very visibly injured man. The media is willing to ask questions, but they seem more subdued than usual. Perhaps they had been warned away, or maybe they just didn’t know what to do with him and the information they knew from the hospital debacle.

Either way, it is less of a literal headache for Marc, which just makes Hank feel physically better.

Slowly, they reintegrate themselves into the team dynamic, but there still is some distance. Marc isn’t playing games yet, but he is now traveling, so he can at least watch from the press box. The dissatisfaction, however, is only compounded across the bond as the Rangers perform better than they had before.

Hank assures Marc that it was because Tortorella is running them all into the ground to compensate for their loss of Marc, but the defenseman wasn’t buying it.

Perhaps it was because of that that he pushes his recovery, and made himself play in Game 3, Round 1 of the playoffs against the Caps. They go on to win that game, but after 21 shifts on the ice, Marc was hurting, and that proved a distraction and pain to Hank.

Thankfully, after the game, he removed himself from the lineup once again.

Hank could feel him beating himself up about his inability to play to the level that he wanted, but the pain just wasn’t worth it for them both.

In the end it doesn’t matter – the Rangers aren’t able to make it past Round 2 against the Bruins.

A slightly longer off season was probably for the best, anyhow.

* * *

Hank’s up to his elbows in suds at the kitchen sink while Marc sweeps up various crumbs around him. The end of season party didn’t have quite the same level of intensity that some of the boys had wanted, but between the way that the season ended, Marc’s injury, and the way that only a few of their teammates were  _ fine  _ what what they were – a vampire and his human, as far as they saw – it made sense it would be relatively quiet.

Still, cleanup was something that needed to get done sooner rather than later.

Hank puts a bowl into the drying rack, turning off the tap and flicking water off his fingers. “Thinking of getting a dog,” he offers, turning to watch Marc sweep up the dirt into a dustpan. The defenseman tosses it in the trashcan before turning to face Hank.

“What, I’m not good enough for you?” Marc jokes.

“So you’re going to walk around and lick up the crumbs after parties?” Hank returns, stepping closer to Marc.

“So you want a walking vacuum?” Marc counters, meeting Hank halfway.

They’re smiling like a pair of idiots in Marc’s kitchen, enjoying the after effect of a party. A few lazy kisses later a knock at the door startles them apart.

They can’t see anyone outside, and Marc goes to the door to see who it is.

Hank turns to start drying the dishes with a towel, but freezes when the door opens, and he smells who is on the other side. The bond fills with a dark feeling of dread as Marc’s voice says, “What are you do--?”

Marc’s words are cut off and Hank comes around the corner, intent on giving this newcomer a piece of his mind.

But he sees something that he never would have expected.

Eric’s got his arms wrapped around Marc, his head nestled in his neck. The two brothers stand in the doorway, and Marc has his arms kind of out but not really around Eric, more like he was in the middle of opening the door and then got surprised and was hugged before he could react.

A low growl weaves through the air and Eric straightens, making eye contact with Hank. He tries to pull Marc around him, to step between them, but Marc shrugs himself out of his brother’s grip.

“Eric. What are you doing here.” His voice is sharp and curt, and Hank can feel the hurt and confusion in his end of the bond. He takes a step closer, but Marc holds a hand out, keeping him from approaching.

It doesn’t feel great to be treated like this, like an attack dog being held at bay, but he sees where his mate is coming from.

“You were hurt, but I couldn’t come see you until now. I wanted to but it…I couldn’t make myself. And now I just want to make sure that nothing was…that I didn’t fuck this up.”

“It takes your brother getting a puck to the face for you to see that you were wrong?” Hank snaps. Marc turns to glare at him, but he’s not done.

“It takes him risking blindness and concussions for you to even consider seeing him again? After you  _ gave  _ him a concussion last season? You think you’re  _ welcome _ here? You don’t have the right to even  _ think  _ that  _ anything  _ you’ve done in the past year would ever be considered  _ okay _ .”

Eric’s shoulders stiffen as the accusations come flying forth. “For what it’s worth,” he begins lowly, “I didn’t mean to give him a concussion. It was a clean hit, the refs and coaches saw that. It was an unfortunate circumstance and I’m  _ sorry  _ for that.” He looks at Marc now, blue eyes almost pleading.

“But I have a right to see my brother. He’s family.”

“It didn’t feel that way back in September.” Marc speaks now, his brows furrowed. The scars have faded now, but the after effects of his injury aren’t entirely eclipsed by time.

Eric wilts slightly. “Marc, it…you have to see what this means for us. For the family.”

“You have  _ no fucking right _ to tell me what the family is going to think of my relationship when you’ve been stringing along that poor kid for how long now?”

Eric’s jaw tightens, but Marc’s not done.

“Look. Jared’s already been through here.  _ He  _ seems to have no problem with it. The biggest injury that I’ve sustained had absolutely nothing to do with Hank, and until you’re willing to see that you were in the wrong to kick me out of  _ our  _ house, and not speak to me for  _ months  _ until an injury like this comes up, ending my season – you know you didn’t even give a shit about the hit that you landed on me two seasons ago too? I’m not hearing any apology for  _ that _ either.”

Hank ignores the hand still reaching out to stop his movement and comes up closer behind Marc. He stands besides him, one hand resting on the small of Marc’s back. Marc gives him some kind of acknowledgement through the bond, but doesn’t turn to look at him. Hank can sense the frustration and hurt over the bond, and he wants to just remove Eric, to get him away and make the pain stop.

“Marc,” Eric continues, voice pleading a bit now. “You want me to say I’m sorry?  _ I’m sorry _ . There, I said it.”

“Sorry for what.”

“Jesus, you sound like Mom.”

Marc’s jaw tightens a bit, and Eric swallows. “I’m sorry for shutting you out. For judging you…for…fuck, I dunno. Just, whatever hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Hank jumps in now, standing in front of Marc. “If you don’t even know what you did wrong, you don’t have the right to apologize.”

Eric’s eyes narrow down at him, his teeth bared slightly. “This isn’t your call to make.”

Standing in the midst of Marc’s territory, Hank knows that to another shapeshifter, even one less powerful than Marc, it appears that he has very,  _ very  _ little power. But they are bonded, and whether or not Eric wants to acknowledge that, it does give Hank some kind of power in this circumstance.

“It is when it concerns my mate,” Hank counters. His own fangs elongate in response, which he bares at Eric.

The blond looks beseechingly over Hank’s head, directly at Marc, but Marc turns away from the two of them. “Leave, Eric. I’m tired.”

Eric looks between the both of them, before turning and taking his leave out the open door. There’s the sound of wings, and then the area is free of him, save for the remnants of his scent.

Hank closes the door, and turns to look at Marc. The shapeshifter stands with his back to the doorway, his arms wrapped around himself. Their bond is a washed out grey, just like it was in the aftermath of that phone call during the lockout.

“Why does he do these things?” Marc whispers, looking behind him over at Hank. “Every single time I get something I love,  _ he  _ has to come along and overshadow me.”

Hank can’t begin to understand what that would be like. Even when Joel and he had been human children, they’d never purposefully tried to overshadow each other. They each shone in different ways, but they were twins; they shared everything, and rarely reached out for more. They had each other’s backs. 

He shakes his head, knowing that his sibling relationship will never line up with Marc’s. He can’t try to understand the level of disregard that Eric seems to feel and show for Marc’s wellbeing, and he never wants to. So he just holds Marc closer, pressing a kiss to his temple, and willing away his sadness.

* * *

Hank and Marc spend the offseason together, bouncing between each other’s places. It’s a bit of a weird point of tension between them that neither wants to address. Marc moving into Hank’s place didn’t actually make the most sense – Hank lived further away from the rink. But Hank moving into Marc’s place would be a monumental step for them as far as shapeshifter culture was concerned.

The Staal’s were only just starting to come around to it too. There wasn’t really any reason to try and test that already tenuous relationship.

Jared bops through a couple times, and acts as house sitter for his brother as need be. It’s not quite like things were before, but it’s better than nothing.

* * *

The next season brings them a new coach in the form of Alain Vigneault, a new goalie in the form of Cam Talbot, and saying goodbye to Martin. Hank couldn’t blame him – he’d take retirement over the minor leagues too.

In December, Hank signs an extension to make him the highest paid goaltender in the NHL. Marc works to correct the earlier two seasons riddled with injuries, and helps to bring the Rangers to their first Stanley Cup Final in 20 years. They lose to the Kings, but the memory instills a hunger in them.

They had come so close to victory, and now they wanted more.

* * *

Hank gets his first shut out in the 2014-2015 season against the Sharks on an October night. Marc doesn’t take any stupid penalties, and winds up +2 in his 27 shifts on the ice. MSG is alive with the thrill of the crowd, and Hank feels grateful not for the first time that the Rangers were the ones who chose him.

Later that night, when they’re at home, Hank spreads out on the bed beneath Marc, the shapeshifter curled up against his side. The hum of the TV is background noise as Hank runs his fingers through Marc’s hair. It’s quiet between the two of them for a brief moment, before there’s a soft purring sound cutting through the quiet.

Hank chuckles softly, and the purring turns to a whine of protest.

“Why laugh,” Marc mumbles, his cheek pressed against Hank’s shoulder.

“You’re cute,” Hank answers.

Marc huffs once more, but sits up a little, so he can look down at Hank. “Even like this?”

He narrows his eyes at him, and not for the first time, Hank finds his attention drawn to the defenseman’s right eye. Even though Marc could now see, the universe hadn’t faded from his pupil, leaving the iris barely visible. Though he could still track the puck and follow light without getting a headache anymore, the odds of his eye ever fully recovering were slim to none.

“Yes, älskling,” he murmurs, gently running his thumb over Marc’s cheek. “Even like that.”

Marc leans into the touch, and Hank leans up for a kiss. It starts off relatively chaste, but soon deepens a little, until both Hank and Marc are breathing a little harder than before.

Hank slides his hand up Marc’s side, sliding his thumb over the muscle there. He’s so strong, always, but especially in the beginning of the season before the stress of constant playing and pushing his body to the brink, time and time again.

Marc shivers at the touch, and leans into it, pushing deeper into the kiss. His bottom lip comes dangerously close to Hank’s fangs, and the goalie tries to guide him further away. Marc whines at the movement, and Hank can feel the slight doubt in the bond as Marc pulls back.

“Do…do you not want this?” he asks, russet eyes downcast.

Hank can’t blame him for being uncertain. They hadn’t gone further than making out ever since Marc’s eye injury. “I do, don’t think that I don’t,” he assures.  _ I don’t want to hurt you,  _ goes unsaid.

“O…kay,” Marc says, clearly not believing him. “We don’t have to. I just, kinda missed it, is all.”

Here, Hank pauses. He wants to make Marc feel good, to make him feel loved, yet that desire was silenced by the overwhelming need to make sure that Marc was safe. That he was healing. The injury remained a sore spot, literally and metaphorically, for the both of them. But it wasn’t the end; Marc was still desirable to Hank, and Hank, of course, remained desirable to Marc. He could feel that in the bond. But he could also feel Marc’s hesitation, frustration, and a fair bit of self loathing that hadn’t been apparent before. Or, maybe it had, and Hank had been too far blinded by his own need to protect Marc, instead of listening to what he wanted.

Hank moves his hand back until he’s got his fingers buried in Marc’s hair, longer now than it would be later on in the season. He rubs gently at Marc’s skin, before murmuring, “We can.”

The bond lights up with surprise, even as Marc searches Hank’s face for any sign of hesitance or regret. When he finds none, he leans in for a kiss, not bothering to be wary of Hank’s fangs. Hank groans into the kiss and flips them, pinning Marc beneath him. Marc whimpers in response, his hands already trying to move up Hank’s shirt, dragging his nails down Hank’s lower back and encouraging him to keep moving. It doesn’t take long before they’re both wearing significantly less clothing, with Marc grinding up against Hank’s thigh, clearly desperate for more.

With slick hands and a hungry mouth, the king delivers.

* * *

By the time Marc’s birthday rolls around, they’re on much more equal footing. Marc’s eye hasn’t made a complete recovery, by this point, but it’s also a crapshoot if it ever will. He’s been playing strong, and Hank’s been consistent between the pipes, hoping to bring the Rangers to another playoff spot. With a 28-15-4 record, facing down Carolina shouldn’t have been that difficult, even if it is a divisional game.

It’s the fact that they’re playing against both Eric and Jordan that has Hank on edge. Marc doesn’t even bother trying to calm him down, to offer meaningless words of support or to soothe him. That alone doesn’t really help to calm Hank down.

By virtue of Marc’s position, he spends a fair bit more time in and around Hank’s crease during warm ups than some of the other Rangers. Hank, normally territorial during warm ups, allows it for the time being. The third time Marc passes by a little too close for comfort, Hank growls a little bit and sends a nudge through their bond. Marc whips around to look at him, his brows furrowed. Hank can sense his confusion, but he’s not about to spell out the fact that they’re now both on edge, faced with two Staal brothers in red.

The game is a blur of simply trying not to listen to the shit hissed just low enough for him to hear, but not enough for any human to pick up on it, ref or player. Otherwise, there would have been a fair few more fights. The vampire grits his teeth and pushes on, getting accustomed to their rough words.

Things come to a head in the second, with the Rangers up 2-0. Nash winds up in the corner, and Hank moves to block the shot, before something catches on his mask, and he takes the puck to the throat. The pain knocks him to the ground, leaving him writhing on the ice.

He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t make sense of what’s happening.

His fangs come down without his permission, and eventually he recognizes that the team doctor and trainer have been brought out to him. Blinking the haze from his eyes, he refrains from snarling – just barely – as they kneel in front of him.

“Easy, Henke,” the trainer mutters, pressing gloved fingers to his neck. “Open your jaw for me, that’s it.”

Hank follows the directions, seeking out through the bond for Marc’s comforting presence. He’s met with barely restrained worry, but Marc’s quick to soothe him. As Hank begins to calm down, he’s able to tell them that it’s not his jaw, but rather his neck. He can smell the worry from his teammates, and he forces himself to settle down.

“I’m fine, I can play.”

The doctor and trainer look at each other, and Hank hisses sharply. “I’m playing. The game’s back on.”

He goes to make his way back to his blades, and the trainer and doctor have no choice but to let him go. He lets them inspect his mask, briefly glancing at the ref who had witnessed the whole ordeal. The ref looks at him with equal parts trepidation and amusement, and makes a quick gesture with his fingers.

“Might wanna put those away before I drop the puck again.”

Hank nods conspiratorially, due to the cameras, and leans in enough that the ref can see the way his teeth retract, leaving him with normal length human incisors. “Thanks for the tip,” he jokes, his voice hoarse from the damage to his throat.

Distantly, he can hear the stick taps from his bench, but it’s mostly drowned out by the standing ovation Rangerstown is giving him from the stands. He nods, casting a glance around the Garden, the place where he and Marc have basically grown up together.  

He gets a few stick taps from some of the guys as they leave for the end of their shift, giving him kudos for staying in despite his injury. Marc skates over to him as he takes the ice, briefly flooding the bond with as much affection and admiration as he can.

“You’ll get that checked out when the game’s over, yes?” Marc asks softly, tapping his stick on the blue ice in agitation.

Hank just gives him a look through the cage of his mask that says,  _ I’ll get to it eventually. _

Marc sighs, but skates off to the faceoff dot, preparing for the start of play. His end of the bond is alight with amusement and affection, and Hank shakes his head to get centered for the play.

* * *

They win the game 4-1. Hank would have wanted a shut out, but towards the end of the game he was feeling a little bit off.

(Later the doctors would tell him that he’s got a “sprained blood vessel” in his neck, forcing him to miss nearly two months of games. Marc just about murdered him when he found out that he’d played through the pain, but Hank was able to calm him down.)

* * *

Qualifying for playoffs in the following season is nothing short of a miracle. They’re missing a lot of guys they thought would be with them until the end, and it hurts to see Hags in black and yellow instead of blue and red, but it’s business.

It hurts more getting knocked out of the first round, 4-1.

It hurts the most to see Hags’ look of contrition as he goes down the handshake line after the final game. Even though he’d left them a fair while ago, for Anaheim, he’d been important. Zucc still hung out with him, from time to time.

Marc is silent on the ride home, silent in the shower, and silent in their kitchen, when it’s 4am and they’re both too depressed to sleep. The bond feels thick, and slow; an olive green and black, mingling like the sludge on the bottom of oil slicked tires.

Hank almost gags at the feeling.

It doesn’t let up until after cleanout interviews, after being asked about summer plans. Hank finds Marc above the parking garage, curled up in a patch of sun. He walks over and sits down next to the brilliant orange cat, and gently runs his fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t bother saying the empty words.  _ Next year will be our year. _

He just lets them revel in it, the sunset of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference, this is what marc's eye looks like [x](https://static.boredpanda.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/rescued-blind-owl-zeus-6.jpg)
> 
> and also, this is it **_!!_** the actual story is pretty much done here, but there's an epilogue that is still in coming, and also possibly some world expansion via other teams. if you have any questions, hmu on [tumblr](http://matskreider.tumblr.com) and i'll be happy to answer anything


	4. denouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end **_!!_** thank you so much for sticking through it, and while this ending has turned from a slice of life into some kind of plot device, but i promise it's going to be worth it. 
> 
> and now, a little bit from marc

The summer sun in France isn’t as good as it is in Sweden, but Marc is hardly one to complain. It was he who suggested that they get a villa anyway, after falling in love with the countryside during one of their vacations.

Marc closes his eyes, face tipped up to the sun on the patio of their villa. Hank’s sleepy contentment from inside settles in the bond, a calm yellow feeling that soothes Marc’s frayed nerves. Jared was asleep downstairs in the guest room, but knowing him he’d probably moved to the couch to let Jordan have the space to himself. Marc wished that Eric had come around, but maybe they’d be able to have a civil conversation at some point.

Marc’s not holding his breath.

He starts to feel Hank waking up, reaching out for the space in his mind that Marc occupies. If Marc was feeling nice, he’d get up and go in, sit next to Hank and run his fingers through his hair until he woke up. But the soreness in his body proves that he’s not feeling particularly well behaved today, nor the night prior, much to his brothers’ chagrin.

He remains still, sunning himself in the morning light, before he hears Hank shuffle his way out to the patio. He soon after feels the gentle touch of Hank’s hand on his sun warmed fur, drawing a purr from deep within his throat.

He stretches, digging his claws into the cloth of the couch he’s currently laying on, before flipping onto his back and meowing up at Hank.

Hank chuckles at him, moving his hand so he’s rubbing at Marc’s belly, lulling him into a sense of contentment. He should have known better than to relax, because Hank scoops him up, tucking him against his torso as he carries him back inside.

Marc sends him a burst of annoyance, which makes Hank just click his tongue at him. “Do you want me to try to feed your brothers by myself?” he asks, and that gets Marc to stop trying to squirm.

Hank takes him down from their white, airy bedroom into the second level of the house. Sure enough, the guest room is closed, still dark inside, which means Jordan’s probably still passed out. By the time they start cooking, however, he’ll wake up. Down the hall, there’s the living room and kitchen, warm in the morning light.

Marc squirms out of Hank’s arms and bounds over to where Jared is sleeping. He too is curled up in an animal form, preferring to be a corn snake in the sunlight puddle on the floor. Marc paps him with his paw, and Jared coils up defensively. Upon recognizing his brother, he relaxes, moving to coil back up.

Marc sits down by Jared, intent on hitting him again, but Hank picks him up again, effectively separating cat and serpent. Meowing loudly in complaint, Marc flicks his tail to show how irritated he is.

“Ugh, fine, but no fighting on my body,” Hank mutters, reaching back down to gently pick up the still sleeping snake.

Jared, used to such treatment, wraps himself loosely around the shoulder of Hank’s tank top.

Together, the three of them make their way to the kitchen, carried by Hank. Marc thinks back to the past few years that they’d had together. He thinks about Jordan and Hank finally coming to terms over breakfast, when Hank had asked Jordan for permission for Marc’s hand in marriage. He thinks about the way that Hank had compromised with him when Marc had asked to stay within the hockey world, even though Hank had wanted to cut his ties.

Hank dumps him on the floor, before shuffling over to the fridge. Marc jumps up onto the island counter and sits, supervising as Hank pulls out the block of cheese, carton of eggs, and milk. He doesn’t want to have to turn into his human self so soon, but he doesn’t trust Hank as far as he can throw him.

Marc shifts back, standing completely bare beside Hank. By now, Hank’s accustomed to such a display, but he does give Marc a warning look which sends him walking back upstairs for some boxers. He’s in the middle of rifling through the drawers in the bedroom, searching for a clean pair, when his phone starts to ring. He finally succeeds in finding a pair, but when he goes to answer the phone, he stops short.

There’s a multitude of reasons why Patrice Bergeron might be calling him, least of all to do with Brad. Marc had sort of turned into a monster expert on call, and had helped to bridge the gap between Brad’s exposure and understanding of the monster world, and Patrice and Tuukka’s idiosyncrasies. He connects the call, already gearing up for a sarcastic comment about their respective offseason performances – or lack thereof, in the Ranger’s case – but he’s cut off by Patrice’s whimper of pain.

“Pat?”

There’s a wet, wheezing cough from the other side of the line. Marc’s blood runs cold. “Patrice. Talk to me.”

“Have you heard anything…about trolls lately?” Patrice manages to get out. How he’s trying to make small talk when he’s obviously in pain is beyond Marc, but he’s used to dealing with idiots.

But trolls are nothing to be overlooked. They tended to stay in mountainous regions, scared of the noise and fast paced life of human urban areas. They were also incredibly stupid, and could be pretty much bullied into doing whatever anyone wanted to. Most monsters knew to stay away from them, as that stupidity manifested physically as brute force, making them a reckless and violent race. But demons got involved occasionally.

“No, I haven’t.”  

“Well I just got some…first hand experience. I don’t know who’s controlling them, but-” The line is filled with another whimper of pain. In the background, Marc thinks that he can hear someone else’s voice, trying to soothe Pat.

“Where are you?”

Pat continues on like Marc hadn’t spoken. “They were too organized. And they…they took…”

Marc already knows where this must be going, if Patrice is this worked up about it. He knows he would be beside himself if he were to be in the condition that Patrice is currently in. He’s overwhelmed, almost enough to not notice the deep blue of Hank’s concern. Marc knows from experience that if he doesn’t console Hank, he’s going to get more agitated until he comes back, but Patrice has his full attention. “Who did they take, Patrice?”

Hank comes running around the corner, Marc not having responded fast enough. He comes over to him, putting a hand on his chest and looking him over for any pain or injury. “Marc, what’s wron-”

Marc grabs both of Hank’s wrists in his free hand, keeping him from doing much else. “Shh! Patrice, say that again?”

There’s a sob on the other end of the line, and then. “Brad. T-Tuukka. They’re gone.”

Hank stops trying to squirm out of Marc’s grasp when he hears what happened. He and Marc look at each other in alarm, and Marc can feel Hank’s hesitance even as he asks, “Pat, where _are_ you? Are you hurt?”

“Our house, Guillaume is here. I took…” Patrice’s voice cuts out, and is soon replaced with an unfamiliar voice, with a much thicker accent.

“My brother took a javelin to the abdomen. I’m healing him as best I can. He insisted on calling you, said you could help.”

“Of course, whatever you need.”

“I’m no fan of shapeshifters. They’re aloof, elite, and greedy,” Guillaume says flatly.

“That’s rich, coming from a harpy,” Marc responds without missing a beat. “Whatever I can do, I’m doing it for Patrice. It’s his mates that are hurting in this; not yours.”

“He is of my flock.”

“So you’d let pride get in the way of your brother’s happiness?”

Silence greets Marc’s inquiry, and he takes a breath to try to calm down. Hank helps, a little bit, wrapping his arm around Marc’s waist and leaning against his chest, right over his heart. “We’ll be there in 9 hours. Don’t move him, but feel free to lose the attitude.” He hangs up, and starts going towards his suitcase.

“What was that all about?” Jared asks from the doorway.

Marc startles a little, not having heard Jared’s approach. “Buncha trolls took Patrice’s mates, I’m heading back to Boston to help him.” He throws open his suitcase and starts throwing his clothes back into it, not really caring how they landed.

“Really?”

“Why?”

“Pat was shot out of the sky with a javelin, both of his mates have been taken by trolls, who are too stupid to launch any type of coordinated attack by themselves, and somehow no one had any idea that _trolls_ would be wandering through _Boston._ ” At this point, the suitcase is as full as it’s going to be, and he closes it. Hank comes over to him, gently stilling Marc’s hands.

“So, what, you’re gonna just go over there and play hero?” he murmurs, looking up at him with more of that deep blue concern.

Marc feels the fight go out of him at his mate’s touch. “…I’m sorry for snapping. But I… _we_ both know what it’s like to have our mates hurt, and we could still see each other. His were _taken._ ” Marc can feel as the understanding and sympathy wash over Hank, changing their bond from deep blue to a settled cream.

“…Get two tickets. We’re both going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pls hmu on [tumblr](https://matskreider.tumblr.com/) to talk more abt this/hank & marc/this ending as a whole/whatever u want
> 
> and thank you, once again, for sticking through this. y'all are amazing <3


End file.
